Four days after I entered the fortress-like home of one of New York’s most feared mafia bosses disguised as an ordinary maid,

I reacted instantly, pulling my hands back and grabbing my cleaning rag, wiping down the brass footrest with frantic, energetic motions.

Claire ripped her earbuds from her ears, shoving her tablet onto the side table as she marched across the sunroom floor, her white rubber-soled nursing shoes squeaking loudly against the polished marble.

"I asked you a question, maid!" Claire barked, standing directly over me, her hands planted indignantly on her hips. "Why are you touching the patient's feet?"

I kept my body low on the floor, adopting a posture of total submission.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Benton," I stammered, making my voice tremble. "Her shoe was slipping off the footrest. I was just trying to adjust it so her ankle wouldn't get caught in the wheel when I moved my bucket."

Claire looked down at Sophia’s bare right foot, then at the shoe sitting on the floor beside my cleaning rag.

Her eyes narrowed into slits of pure suspicion. She reached down, grabbing Sophia’s wrist, pretending to check her pulse while eyeing me like a hawk.

"Did she speak to you?" Claire demanded sharply.

"No, ma'am," I lied smoothly, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor tiles. "She just looked out the window at the garden."

Claire leaned down, grabbing my shoulder with a tight, painful grip, dragging me up to my feet.

"Listen to me very carefully, Clara Hayes," Claire hissed, her face inches from mine. I could smell the synthetic strawberry perfume on her skin. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but you are a domestic cleaner. You scrub toilets. You wipe dust. You do not touch my patient. You do not talk to my patient. If I catch you leaning near her wheelchair again, I will tell Mr. Moretti you were trying to steal her gold bracelet."

It was a blatant, ruthless threat. In Enzo Moretti’s house, an accusation of theft from his daughter meant a bullet in the dark.

"I understand, Miss Benton," I whispered, forcing tears to fill my eyes. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"Get your bucket and get out," Claire ordered coldly. "Now."

I picked up my plastic bucket and rag, giving Sophia one quick, reassuring glance before hurrying out into the corridor.

Sophia watched me go, her small hand clutching the armrest of her wheelchair, a tiny, secret spark of understanding shining in her eyes.

I walked down the long east hallway toward the kitchen, my mind working at a blinding speed.

Claire wasn't just lazy. She was hyper-vigilant about anyone interacting with Sophia. The moment she thought I had communicated with the child, her immediate reaction wasn't curiosity—it was aggressive, defensive panic.

She knew.

Claire Benton knew that Sophia wasn't permanently paralyzed.

She was being paid—either by Dr. Vance, by someone within the Moretti organization, or by an outside rival—to keep Enzo Moretti’s only heir incapacitated.

And I was the only person in the entire world who stood in their way.

I turned the corner into the pantry, leaning my back against the cold wooden shelves, taking deep, steadying breaths.

I needed hard evidence. I needed to analyze the chemical compound in Claire’s daily syringes, and I needed to get that evidence directly to Enzo before Claire realized I was onto her and framed me for theft—or worse.