Chapter 2 - The Mafia Princess
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By her second week as Rafe’s permanent maid, Mara had settled into a quiet, careful rhythm. She learned that the mafia boss preferred his coffee black, his room freezing cold, and his silence unbroken. But on a stormy Tuesday evening, that silence was violently shattered.
The heavy oak doors of the penthouse swung open without a knock. A woman stepped inside, trailing the scent of expensive gardenias and cold rain. She was stunning, wrapped in a white mink coat, with razor-sharp cheekbones and blonde hair perfectly arranged to look effortless.
"Rafe, darling," she said, her voice echoing in the large room. "The traffic over the bridge was an absolute nightmare."
Mara froze by the linen closet. This was Sylvia Vance, the daughter of a rival syndicate boss from Miami, and Rafe’s newly announced fiancée. It was a business arrangement forged in blood and money, but Sylvia played the role of the devoted lover flawlessly.
Sylvia’s icy blue eyes scanned the room and instantly locked onto Mara. The beautiful woman’s face contorted with immediate, unfiltered disgust. She looked at Mara’s faded gray uniform, the way the fabric pulled tightly across her curves, and the cheap, oversized shoes on her feet.
"What is this?" Sylvia demanded, gesturing toward Mara as if she were a stain on the rug. "Where is the usual girl? The one from Ukraine?"
"She quit," Rafe said flatly, not looking up from his laptop. "Mara is permanent."
Sylvia stepped closer to Mara, invading her personal space. "She looks like she ate the last maid. Really, Rafe, this is a luxury hotel, not a charity kitchen. Her presence is entirely offensive to my eyes."
Mara looked down at her shoes, her cheeks burning with hot, humiliating shame. She was used to insults, but Sylvia’s cruelty carried the weight of absolute power.
"Her appearance is irrelevant," Rafe’s voice cut through the room, cold and sharp as a blade. "She does her job quietly. Leave her alone, Sylvia."
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"Whatever," Sylvia sneered, turning away. "Just make sure she doesn't steal the silverware. Look at her, she’s practically sweating grease."
Mara gripped the edges of her laundry cart, forcing herself to breathe. She promised herself she wouldn't cry. Not here. Not in front of them.
