The coffee cup was trembling in my hand when Mia’s tiny voice floated through the open study door. “You look mad.”

"What is your name?" Vincent asked, his voice low, deep, and smooth like polished granite.

"Mia," she replied proudly, holding up three fingers. "I'm three years old, and I like yellow."

Vincent looked down at her bright yellow dress, then glanced up at me. His gaze was sharp, analytical, and cold enough to freeze boiling water. I pressed myself back against the doorframe, holding the trembling coffee cup against my chest, waiting for the inevitable words: You're fired. Get your things and get out.

Instead, Vincent looked back down at Mia. "Do you think my face looks mad, Mia?"

"Uh-huh," she nodded emphatically. "Like this." She repeated the stern frown, squishing her tiny nose.

Renzo let out another muffled snort, which he disguised as a heavy clearing of his throat. Vincent ignored his chief of security entirely. A subtle, almost invisible softening appeared around the corners of his dark eyes.

"I am not mad," Vincent said softly. "I am just thinking very hard."

"About what?" Mia asked, leaning forward with zero sense of stranger danger.

"About work," Vincent replied smoothly, standing up to his full height. His gaze shifted directly back to me. The warmth that had briefly touched his eyes vanished, replaced by the lethal authority that governed his empire. "Elena."

"Yes, Mr. Castalano?" My voice shook, despite my best efforts to sound composed.

"Take your daughter to the secondary kitchen," he commanded coldly. "Have the chef prepare her whatever breakfast she wants. Then bring your cleaning supplies to the west wing."

"Yes, sir," I whispered. "Thank you, sir. I am deeply sorry—"

"Go," he cut in, turning his back to us and walking toward his desk.

I rushed forward, took Mia's small hand, and practically carried her out of the study. My knees felt like jelly as we hurried down the long marble corridor toward the staff quarters. Once we were safely behind the kitchen doors, I collapsed into a wooden chair, pulling Mia into my lap and burying my face in her soft hair.

"Mommy, why are you shaking?" Mia murmured, reaching up to pat my cheek.

"I'm okay, sweetie," I lied, taking a deep breath to steady my heart. "Just... please stay right next to Mommy today."

For the next two hours, while I scrubbed marble countertops and polished heavy silver frames in the west wing, my mind raced. Vincent Castalano was known across the city as a man who showed no mercy. He ran an international logistics empire, but everyone in the city knew his true power lay in the underworld shadows. Men vanished when they crossed him. Competitors backed down at the mere mention of his name.

Yet, he hadn't fired me. He hadn't thrown us out onto the street.

At noon, as I was finishing up the grand staircase, Renzo Moretti appeared at the bottom of the steps. His hands were tucked into his crisp suit pockets, an amused expression resting on his face.

"You're a brave woman, Elena," Renzo said, leaning against the banister.

"I'm a desperate woman, Renzo," I corrected, wiping my hands on my apron. "Is he... is he going to fire me later?"

Renzo let out a quiet laugh. "In the five years I've worked for Mr. Castalano, I have seen men beg on their knees for forgiveness over minor infractions. I have never seen anyone mock his face and live to tell the story—let alone get offered a plate of fresh pancakes from the executive chef."

"I didn't mean for her to wander in there," I insisted, defensive anger creeping into my tone. "I lost my babysitter. I had no choice."

"Relax, Elena," Renzo said, his smile fading into something serious. "You aren't fired. But Mr. Castalano wants to see you in his study at five o'clock. Alone."