[COMPLETED] The Pregnant Maid Fed the Neglected Old Man in Room 4B—Then the Mafia Boss Returned During a Blizzard

Mrs. Gable waited until Lorenzo's footsteps disappeared before allowing her smile to fall.

"You heard him," she snapped. "The house is perfect, and it will stay that way. If any of you contradict me, you won't work here another day."

The servants scattered across the marble foyer. Nora remained near the staircase, one hand supporting the weight of her belly. Through the high windows, snow struck the glass hard enough to sound like handfuls of gravel.

She had spent three months listening to the old man's difficult breathing. She had learned how he liked the curtains opened and how his stiff fingers sometimes moved when she spoke about Lily. She could not leave him waiting in room 4B while Mrs. Gable told his son that everything was wonderful.

Nora climbed the stairs slowly. Each step pulled at her aching back. At the eastern corridor she found a young maid carrying a silver tray piled with fresh linen and flowers.

"Where are those going?" Nora asked.

"Room 4B. Mrs. Gable wants it ready before the master comes upstairs."

Nora followed her. For the first time since she began working at the estate, there were fresh flowers outside Giovanni's door. Inside, the curtains were open and a small fire crackled in the hearth. Someone had replaced his thin sweater with a fine cashmere cardigan.

But the radiator remained cold. His wheelchair still had a rusted wheel. On the side table, beneath the new porcelain plate, Nora could see the pale ring left by an old bowl of oatmeal.

"Did anyone wash him?" she asked.

The maid looked uncomfortable. "I was only told to change the room."

Nora approached Giovanni. His silver hair had been brushed hurriedly, leaving knots at the back. When she put her hand over his, his fingers gave the faint movement she knew so well.

"I'm here, John," she whispered. "I haven't forgotten you."

His gaze moved past her toward the open doorway. Nora turned.

Mrs. Gable stood there, her mouth a hard line.

"Out. You've caused enough trouble by wandering away from your work."

"He needs proper care," Nora said. "Not just a clean plate when his son comes to visit."

The head housekeeper took a step forward. "You should think carefully about how you speak when you're one unpaid bill away from sleeping outside."

Nora felt the familiar fear rise. Her landlord had already threatened eviction. Brody had disappeared, leaving debts and promises that meant nothing. Losing this job would leave her with almost nowhere to take her daughter.

Then she looked at Giovanni's hands resting helplessly on the blanket she had bought with her tips.

"I'm thinking about him," she answered.

Mrs. Gable seized the door. "Go downstairs. Now."

Nora stepped into the corridor, but instead of heading for the servants' stairs, she turned toward Lorenzo's study. She had reached the door before she allowed herself to consider what she was doing.

Two bodyguards stood outside. One moved to block her.

"Mr. Moretti said he wasn't to be disturbed."

"It's about his father."

The guard did not move. Nora's hand tightened around the railing as a sharp pain crossed her lower back.

The study door opened. Lorenzo looked out, irritation already in his gray eyes.

"What is it?"

Nora forced herself to speak. "Your father isn't being cared for the way you were told. His room is usually freezing. His food is left for hours. He needs someone qualified to look after him."

The guard glanced at Lorenzo, waiting for an order.

"Who are you?" Lorenzo asked.

"Nora. I work upstairs."

"And you're accusing my housekeeper of neglecting my father?"

"I'm telling you what I've seen."

Lorenzo studied her oversized uniform, her swollen belly, and the exhaustion that no amount of standing straight could conceal. His gaze stopped on the bruises circling one of her wrists.

"Show me."

They crossed the long corridor together. Mrs. Gable met them at the door, her expression changing when she recognized the person walking beside Nora.

"Mr. Moretti! I was just making your father comfortable."

Lorenzo entered without answering. He took in the flowers, the fire, the new cardigan. Then he looked at the cold radiator and the patched arm of the wheelchair.

"Father."

Giovanni's eyes shifted toward his son. It was a small movement, but Lorenzo stopped as though it had struck him.

"How long has he been in this chair?" Lorenzo asked.

Mrs. Gable smiled nervously. "It's the one he prefers. His condition makes him very set in his ways."

"How does a man who cannot speak tell you which wheelchair he prefers?"

She hesitated. "We know his habits."

Nora stepped forward. "He has to be turned toward the window. They leave him facing the wall."

Lorenzo went behind the chair. The metal squealed beneath his hand. He saw the pressure marks where the old upholstery had rubbed Giovanni's skin and the worn wheels that struggled to turn.

"Where is his nurse?"

"The private-care service checks him regularly," Mrs. Gable said.

"Name the person who checked him today."

"I would have to consult the schedule."

"Then consult it."

Giovanni's hand moved again. Lorenzo noticed this time. He crouched in front of his father, studying a face he had learned to remember as vacant and unreachable.

"Can you hear me?"

Giovanni's eyes did not leave him.

"When was the last time a physician examined him?" Lorenzo asked.

Mrs. Gable began to answer, but he raised one hand.

"Not you. I want records. The original records, not a summary."

Nora swayed. She caught the back of the stool before she fell. Lorenzo turned immediately.

"Are you ill?"

"Just tired, sir."

"How many months?"

"Almost nine."

His gaze returned to her bruised wrist. "Were you lifting things today?"

She thought of the brass bucket, the drapes, and the forty-eight hours of work that had left her struggling for breath. She did not need to answer. Mrs. Gable's face had already changed.

"The girl insists on working," Mrs. Gable said quickly. "I've tried to give her lighter duties."

Nora looked at her in disbelief.

"You ordered me to carry the drapes. You said my doctor's warning didn't matter."

Silence settled around the wheelchair.

Lorenzo's voice lowered. "Bring me every duty roster and every invoice for my father's care. And call an independent physician."

"In this weather?" Mrs. Gable protested.

"Find a way."

He turned to the bodyguard at the door. "No one enters this room without my permission or Nora's. Keep a record of every person who tries."

Mrs. Gable stared. For the first time, she looked less like the mistress of the estate than a woman standing near the edge of a serious mistake.

Lorenzo drew the heated blanket gently around his father's knees. The fabric was inexpensive, worn at the corners from frequent washing.

"Who bought this?" he asked.

Giovanni's eyes moved toward Nora.

"I did," she said. "With my tips."

Lorenzo stared at the blanket. He owned the mansion, the cars outside, and an empire that stretched far beyond the snow-covered grounds. Yet someone paid a fraction of what his household spent on flowers had been buying his father warmth.

He looked back at Giovanni and asked a question he had avoided for years.

"Father, what have I allowed to happen to you?"