Ira's pov

I stayed in the attic

They called it a room, but it was barely more than a crawlspace with a single window that looked out over the back gardens. No curtains. No warmth. Just a mattress, a wooden chair, and a rusted ceiling fan that clanked every five seconds like it was reminding me I didn’t belong.

Still, I was grateful.

Grateful that the bed didn’t have three other girls crammed into it like back at the orphanage.

Grateful that no one here slapped my hands when I took an extra bite of bread.

Grateful that I was needed.

Even if it was just for scrubbing the grout between centuries-old marble tiles.

The mansion was massive. Cold. Beautiful in a terrifying way. Every hallway echoed. Every painting stared at me like it knew I was temporary. The kind of place where you whispered without meaning to, just out of respect for how many secrets the walls had already heard.

No one talked much. Not to me, anyway.

The head cook, Maria, was the only one who softened when she spoke. She was older, maybe in her fifties, and had eyes like she’d seen too much and chosen to survive it anyway.

“Stick to the kitchen wing and east halls. Don’t wander,” she told me on my second day. “The less the Don sees you, the better.”

“Don?” I echoed, unsure.

She just pressed her lips together and handed me a bucket.

---

The work wasn’t hard. Not really. But the silence made it feel heavier.

I would wake up at five, pull on the plain uniform they gave me—black dress, white apron, hair tied back—and start cleaning before the rest of the house stirred. The floor tiles were always cold. My hands were always dry and aching. My knees bruised from scrubbing. But I didn’t mind.

I knew how to work. I’d been working my whole life—for attention, for food, for the feeling of mattering.

At least here, I had a purpose.

Still, something about the place unsettled me.

Not the people—they were mostly polite. Not warm, but not cruel.

It was the way everything looked… untouched.

Like this was a palace frozen in time. Chandeliers that never flickered. Tables that never had crumbs. Rooms that hadn’t been opened in years but were still spotless. I didn’t understand how a place so big could feel so hollow.

Sometimes I’d feel eyes on me, but no one would be there.

Other times, I’d catch whispers in languages I didn’t understand—Italian, Russian, something else.

One night, I passed a room with the door slightly ajar and saw men in suits around a table. Guns laid out beside whiskey glasses. The door closed before I could process what I was seeing.

No one ever mentioned it the next day.

---

On the fourth night, I made the mistake of asking Maria, “What does the family do?”

She looked up from the pot she was stirring and said, calmly, “They do what they must.”

That was the end of that conversation.

---

By the fifth day, I had learned every corner of the east wing. I’d memorized which tiles creaked, which staff avoided eye contact, and how to disappear into a room even when I was in the center of it.

That was my talent.

I’d perfected invisibility.

And yet… something told me that wouldn’t be enough in this house.

Especially when I heard the sudden hum of engines one evening—the sound of expensive tires against the gravel courtyard outside. The house staff froze. A few straightened their clothes. Some quietly left the room.

Maria’s hand paused mid-stir.

“He’s back,” she whispered under her breath.

“Who?” I asked.

But no one answered.

I returned to scrubbing the silverware, heart suddenly louder in my ears.

---

That night, I was told to bring a tray of espresso and cigars to the study.

I almost said no. I almost lied and said I wasn’t allowed in the west wing.

But the butler just said, “You. Go.”

So I went.

And when the heavy wooden door opened…

When the shadows split and I stepped into that room filled with quiet power…

That’s when I saw him.

Luca Moretti.

The Capo.

And nothing about my life—my past, my silence, my brokenness—could have prepared me

for the way he looked at me.

Like I had just ruined his peace.

And made him want to ruin mine.