Everyone Expected the Mafia Boss to Choose a Powerful Mobster’s Daughter—Instead, He Said, “I Choose Her,” Pointing to His Maid

By noon the following day, the modest Mexican maid named Luna Reyes had been systematically erased.

In her place sat a woman wrapped in a champagne-silk robe, surrounded by four frantic Italian stylists, two armed guards stationed at the bedroom doors, and enough diamond jewelry on the vanity table to purchase a private island.

“Hold still, signorina,” a sharp-tongued stylist named Donatella muttered, pulling Luna’s dark, wavy hair into an intricate, cascading updo threaded with genuine freshwater pearls. “Don Salvatore requested perfection for tonight’s introductory dinner. If a single hairpin falls out of place, he will have my salon closed by dawn.”

Luna looked into the gilded mirror, barely recognizing the woman staring back at her. Her sun-kissed skin had been smoothed with expensive creams; her dark eyes were lined with smoky kohl that accentuated their almond shape, and her lips were painted a deep, velvety crimson.

Hung over a velvet mannequin behind her was the dress: a midnight-blue velvet gown with an off-the-shoulder cut, a corseted waist that flared into a dramatic, sweeping skirt, and a slit up the left thigh that revealed just enough leg to be scandalous.

It was armor. Beautiful, obscenely expensive armor.

The double doors of the master suite clicked open. Marco and Matteo, two broad-shouldered Sicilian twins dressed in matching charcoal suits with submachine guns tucked subtly under their coats, snapped to attention.

Luca walked in.

He stopped dead in the center of the dressing room. His eyes swept over Luna, traveling from the delicate pearls in her hair down to the bare, graceful curve of her collarbone, and finally settling on her face. For three full seconds, the ruthless heir of the Moretti empire forgot how to breathe.

“Out,” Luca said, his voice husky and rough.

“Signor Moretti, we aren't finished with the—” Donatella began.

“*Out.*”

The stylists didn't need to be told twice. They gathered their brushes and pins in blind panic and fled the room, the heavy oak doors latching behind them.

Luna rose from the vanity stool, feeling acutely self-conscious. She pulled the silk robe tighter around her curves.

“Do I look ridiculous?” she whispered, chewing her lip. “I feel like an imposter playing dress-up in someone else’s life.”

Luca closed the distance between them with slow, predatory grace. He stopped right in front of her, his tall frame dwarfing hers. He reached out, his warm, heavy fingers gently taking her chin, tilting her face up toward his.

“You look like a queen,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over the crimson lipstick on her lower lip. “You look like you were born to sit on a throne.”

“Queens have kingdoms,” she said, her voice trembling beneath the heat of his gaze. “I have a broom in Michoacán.”

“You have me,” Luca countered, his voice fiercely possessive. “And as long as I have breath in my lungs, no one in this city will dare look down on you.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy velvet box. Flipping it open, he revealed a breathtaking diamond necklace—a cascade of pear-cut diamonds centering around an enormous, five-carat emerald that matched the exact hue of his eyes.

“Turn around,” he instructed softly.

Luna turned, gathering her hair to expose the nape of her neck. She felt the cool metal of the necklace settle against her skin, followed immediately by the scorching heat of Luca’s hands fastening the clasp.

Then, unexpectedly, he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the sensitive curve where her neck met her shoulder.

A gasp caught in Luna’s throat. A jolt of pure electricity surged down her spine, making her toes curl. She leaned back slightly, her body betraying her, melting into the solid wall of his chest.

Luca wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, resting his chin against her temple as they both looked into the mirror.

“Tonight is the formal dinner with the inner council,” Luca whispered against her ear, his breath making her shiver. “The five Capos will be there. Vincent will be watching your every breath. Katarina’s father refused to come, which means he is already mobilizing. They are going to test you, Luna. They will try to humiliate you, break your spirit, and make you run.”

Luna looked at her reflection—the maid disguised as an empress, flanked by a mafia prince whose hands were stained with blood, but whose eyes held a devotion that bordered on religious fervor.

She squared her shoulders, her chin lifting.

“Let them try,” she said.

Luca smiled—a dark, dangerous, intoxicating smile.