“You look hurt… do you need a hug?” the maid’s six-year-old daughter asked me—the most feared mafia boss in New York
“Not here,” she whispered.
I should have demanded an answer.
I should have ordered my men to take them both to the mansion, lock the gates, and refuse to let Isabella leave until she told me everything.
That was how Alessandro Moretti handled secrets.
But Lily’s small fingers tightened around mine.
She was not afraid of me.
And for reasons I could not explain, I did not want to give her a reason to become afraid.
“There’s a restaurant across the street,” I said. “Private rooms upstairs.”
