PART 1
My name is Josephine Hale, and I’m thirty years old.
Three weeks earlier, I’d started working at the Rossi estate, a sprawling Long Island mansion surrounded by iron gates, security cameras, and armed guards.
My employer was Vincent Rossi.
Thirty-seven years old.
Cold, powerful, and the leader of one of New York’s most dangerous mafia organizations.
People whispered that he’d never forgiven a betrayal.
And I’d learned very quickly that nobody questioned his orders.
I was an ordinary woman with shoulder-length brown hair and pale blue eyes. I kept my head down, cleaned the rooms, and avoided getting involved in anything that happened behind those expensive doors.
I needed the paycheck.
And I definitely didn’t need trouble.
But trouble found me anyway.
One night, shortly after midnight, I was eating leftover chicken soup alone in the staff kitchen.
That’s when Brock Lazzaro walked in.
He was one of Vincent’s senior men.
He smelled of whiskey.
And he wasn’t alone.
Two other guards followed him inside.
I immediately stood.
“Sorry, sir. I’ll finish cleaning up.”
Brock stepped into my path.
“What’s the hurry, sweetheart?”
“I need to prepare the breakfast room.”
He looked me up and down.
“Pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be hiding in the kitchen.”
I tightened my grip on my soup bowl.
“Please excuse me.”
Brock smiled.
“What’s wrong? Too good to talk to us?”
“No, sir.”
“Then look at me when I’m talking.”
I raised my eyes.
He reached toward my face.
I stepped backward.
And my bowl slipped.
Before I could catch it, Brock slapped it from my hands.
Ceramic shattered across the tile.
Hot soup splashed over my uniform.
The other men laughed.
My cheeks burned.
“Look what you did,” Brock said.
I stared at the mess.
“I’m sorry.”
“Clean it up.”
I knelt down, trying to keep my shaking hands steady.
Then a voice came from the doorway.
“No.”
Every sound in the kitchen stopped.
Vincent Rossi stood beneath the doorway in dark trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
He glanced at the broken bowl.
Then at my stained uniform.
Finally, his eyes settled on Brock.
“Did she drop that?”
Brock straightened.
“Just an accident, boss.”
Vincent didn’t move.
“That wasn’t my question.”
I kept my eyes on the floor.
Brock laughed nervously.
“Come on, Vincent. We’re just having a little fun.”
Vincent’s expression hardened.
“Does she look like she’s having fun?”
Nobody answered.
Then Vincent looked at me.
“Josephine. Stand up.”
I slowly rose.
My hands were trembling.
“Did he do that?”
I hesitated.
Brock was standing just a few feet away.
And I knew exactly what happened to people who made powerful men angry.
“It’s okay, Mr. Rossi,” I whispered.
His jaw tightened.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Before I could answer, Brock interrupted.
“Boss, she’s exaggerating.”
Vincent turned toward him.
“Did I give you permission to speak?”
Brock went silent.
For the first time that night, I saw real fear in his eyes.
Vincent took one step closer.
