[COMPLETED] A Pregnant Maid Secretly Cared for the Forgotten Mafia Don—Then His Ruthless Son Saw the Old Man Point at Her

For several seconds, nobody moved.

Giovanni Moretti's right arm trembled above the olive-green blanket. His finger was still pointing at me. Standing beneath the grand staircase, I felt every pair of eyes in the foyer turn toward my face.

Mrs. Gable recovered first.

"Mr. Moretti, please don't be alarmed," she said. "Your father sometimes makes involuntary movements. The girl has been upsetting him."

"I haven't," I whispered.

"Quiet."

The order came automatically, as though Lorenzo Moretti had not just arrived with four men and brought the entire household to a standstill.

A door opened on the right. Lorenzo stepped out of his study.

"What's happening?"

His gaze followed the staff's faces up to the staircase. When he saw his father, his expression changed so completely that I almost looked away.

"Dad?"

A young attendant stood behind the rusted wheelchair. He had apparently been told to bring Giovanni downstairs to greet his son, but nobody had expected the old man to move his arm. The attendant looked as startled as the rest of us.

Lorenzo crossed the foyer without another word and climbed the first steps. Giovanni's finger wavered but did not fall. His dark eyes remained fixed on me.

"What are you trying to tell me?" Lorenzo asked him.

Mrs. Gable hurried after him. "He isn't aware of what he's doing. His doctors have explained that—"

"I asked my father."

She stopped.

Lorenzo crouched beside the wheelchair and placed a hand over Giovanni's motionless left hand. His own fingers shook once before he steadied them.

"Is it the maid?"

Giovanni's eyes moved toward him, then back to me.

"Bring her here," Lorenzo said.

My legs felt unsteady as I climbed. Mrs. Gable stepped into my path, close enough that only I could hear her.

"One lie and you're finished."

I kept walking.

Up close, Giovanni looked exhausted by the effort. His shoulders had sagged, and the raised hand slowly dropped onto his blanket. But when I stood beside him, his fingers opened. I slipped my hand into his.

His thumb pressed against my skin.

It was slight. I might have doubted it if Lorenzo hadn't seen it too.

"Does he know you?" he asked.

"I feed him sometimes, sir. I look after his room."

"She carries his trays," Mrs. Gable corrected from behind us. "Nothing more."

Giovanni made a low sound in his throat. His eyes filled with tears.

Lorenzo studied him, then turned back to me. "Tell me about his room."

My first instinct was to glance at Mrs. Gable. The bruises beneath my cuffs ached, and I could hear her warning as clearly as if she had repeated it.

"It's cold," I said. "The curtains stay shut unless I open them. His meals are often left for hours."

"That is absolutely false," Mrs. Gable said.

"There was cold oatmeal beside him when I first went in. He was facing the wall."

Lorenzo's face remained still.

"How long ago?"

"Weeks, sir. I started bringing warm food. And I bought him a heated blanket with my tips."

I touched the olive-green fabric. Giovanni tightened his fingers around mine.

"That's enough," Mrs. Gable said. "She has no medical training. She's pregnant and emotional, and she doesn't understand his condition."

Lorenzo looked at my stomach, then at my hands. I tried to tuck my wrists under my sleeves too late.

"Who did that?"

"It's nothing."

"Those are bruises."

Giovanni's eyes moved down to my wrists. His breathing quickened, and his right hand twitched against the blanket.

Mrs. Gable gave a sharp laugh. "She bruises easily. She's always dropping things."

"I asked her," Lorenzo said.

I forced myself to answer. "I've been carrying heavy buckets and moving the winter curtains. I was told I couldn't refuse."

"By whom?"

Mrs. Gable opened her mouth. This time, I spoke before she could.

"Mrs. Gable."

The foyer went quiet again.

Lorenzo didn't threaten anyone. He told the attendant to keep the wheelchair stationary and asked one of his men to bring the family physician. Then he took the handles himself.

"Show me Room 4B."

The route upstairs seemed longer than it ever had during my shifts. Mrs. Gable followed, listing explanations for things we hadn't even reached: renovations, heating troubles, the difficulty of staffing winter nights. Lorenzo answered none of them.

Room 4B was exactly as I'd left it, except the fire had burned low.

The narrow bed, the shut curtains, the old furniture. A tray still waited on the side table. There was no private nurse, no emergency call button within Giovanni's reach, and no evidence of the luxurious care Mrs. Gable had described.

Lorenzo crossed to the window. His reflection appeared dark against the snow-covered pines.

"This is where he's lived?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

He looked toward the wheelchair. "For how long?"

Giovanni closed his eyes. He could not tell us.

Mrs. Gable hurried to the thermostat. "There was a problem with the heating only this morning."

"The radiator is cold," Lorenzo replied.

He lifted the oatmeal dish that had been left beside the newer dinner tray. Its surface had stiffened. A thin film of cold milk clung to the rim.

"You told me he received the best care."

Mrs. Gable's voice tightened. "Everything he needs has been ordered and paid for. You can check the accounts."

"I intend to."

He put the dish down, then called for a clean, warm suite on the ground floor, a qualified care nurse, and immediate medical assessment. His orders were quiet enough that nobody could mistake them for a performance.

When Mrs. Gable tried to lead me out, Giovanni held on.

Lorenzo watched the old man's fingers around mine.

"Let her stay until the doctor arrives."

My relief was so sudden that it almost hurt.

A few minutes later, an assistant brought a tablet containing the household's monthly care statement. Lorenzo read it by the window. His eyes moved down the page once, then again.

"Private nursing," he murmured. "Night supervision. Specialist equipment."

He looked around the freezing room.

"My father has been billed for all of this?"