His Fiancée Threatened the Maid in Private—Unaware the Mafia Boss Was Still Listening

The war escalated quickly.

Within a week, three of Dominic’s warehouses were burned. The Morrows were hitting his supply lines, trying to bleed him out financially before moving on the mansion itself.

Dominic was rarely seen. He was a ghost moving through his own home, orchestrating counter-attacks and solidifying his alliances with the smaller families who hated the Morrows.

Marin fell into a strange routine. She cared for Isabella during the day, taught Eli his schoolwork since he couldn't return to St. Anne’s, and waited for the heavy footsteps in the hallway that signaled Dominic’s return.

One night, she found him in the kitchen at 3:00 AM.

He was sitting at the stainless steel island, a glass of untouched scotch in front of him. His suit jacket was discarded, his tie loose. He looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes betraying the toll the war was taking on him.

Marin hesitated in the doorway, wearing a worn fleece robe over her pajamas.

“You should be sleeping,” Dominic said without turning around.

“So should you,” Marin replied softly, stepping into the kitchen. She walked to the stove and began boiling water. “Coffee won't help you sleep. But tea might.”

Dominic watched her move. She didn't flutter around him anxiously. She moved with purpose, comfortable in a space that intimidated most people.

“They hit another dock tonight,” Dominic murmured, his voice rough. “Lost three men.”

Marin stopped pouring the water. She turned to face him. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s my fault,” he said, staring at the amber liquid in his glass. “I should have seen Vivien’s ambition earlier. I should have known better than to bring a viper into my mother’s house.”

“You brought her in to make peace,” Marin countered gently, setting a steaming mug of chamomile tea in front of him. “You wanted to stop the fighting. That isn't a weakness, Dominic.”

He looked up at her. He looked at the soft curve of her jaw, the dark curls escaping her messy bun, the deep, empathetic brown eyes that saw right through his terrifying facade.

“You are very dangerous, Marin Hayes,” Dominic whispered.

Marin blinked, confused. “Me? I’m a caregiver.”

“You make me want things I cannot afford to want,” he elaborated, his voice dropping into a register that made her breath hitch. “You make me want to lay down my weapons and just… rest.”

He reached out, his calloused fingers gently brushing against the back of her hand resting on the counter. The contact sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core.

Before she could respond, the kitchen door swung open violently.