THE HOUSEMAID’S BURDEN

The air in the kitchen felt incredibly thin, as if Luca’s realization had sucked all the oxygen from the room.

I stood up slowly, clutching the tarnished St. Christopher medal to my chest. My hands were shaking so violently that the silver chain rattled against itself. For seven months, I had forced myself to accept that David’s death was a senseless tragedy—a patch of black ice, a careless stranger, a cruel twist of fate that left me pregnant and entirely alone.

To hear Luca say the word ordered made the floor tilt beneath my feet.

“Why?” I whispered, my voice cracking. “David was just a driver. He didn't handle your money, Mr. Moretti. He didn't carry a gun. Why would Vanessa’s family want him dead?”

Luca looked at the kitchen door, his mind working with terrifying speed. “Because David wasn't just a driver, Hannah. He was the only man I trusted to drive my younger sister, Sofia. He heard things. He saw things. And if Vanessa went through your private locker to find this medal, it means she knew David had left something with you.”

He turned back to me, his dark eyes intense. “Did he give you anything else before he died? A letter? A key? A ledger?”

I shook my head frantically. “No! Nothing! Just his paycheck and this medal. I swear to you, Mr. Moretti, I don't know anything about your family's business.”

“I believe you,” Luca said softly, his expression softening for a fraction of a second. “But Vanessa didn't. She hired you as a housemaid to keep you close. To watch you. And when she realized you didn't have what she was looking for, she tried to force you to quit tonight by throwing away your son’s milk.”

Luca reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He dialed a number, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Marco,” Luca said into the receiver. “Bring the car to the kitchen entrance. Two men. We’re moving Hannah and her mother to the safe house on the coast. Tonight.”

“Mr. Moretti, wait,” I panicked, stepping forward. “My mother—her arthritis is terrible, she can barely walk up the stairs right now. And my baby, Leo, he has a pediatrician appointment tomorrow. I can't just disappear!”

Luca hung up the phone and placed a steady, warm hand on my shoulder. “Hannah, if Vanessa’s family realizes we found that medal in her trash tonight, they won't stop at firing you. They killed the father of your child to cover their tracks. Do you really think they will hesitate to hurt you or your son?”

The sheer terror of his words finally broke through my shock. My baby. Leo. He was at home in our tiny, drafty apartment with only my frail mother to protect him.

“Okay,” I breathed, nodding rapidly. “Okay. Let me get my coat.”

“Leave it,” Luca commanded. “We don't have time.”

He led me out the back door of the kitchen just as a heavy, black SUV pulled into the alleyway, its headlights cutting through the autumn fog. Two of Luca’s men stepped out, their faces grim and professional. Luca opened the back door for me himself.

“Go with Marco. He will take you to your apartment, help your mother pack the essentials, and drive you to the property. I will join you as soon as I am finished here.”

I climbed into the leather seat, clutching the silver medal so tightly it cut into my palm. As the heavy door shut, I looked out the tinted window. Luca was walking back up the stairs toward the house, his posture rigid, heading straight for the study where Vanessa was waiting.

The drive to my apartment in the city took twenty agonizing minutes. Marco didn't speak, but he kept his eyes glued to the rearview mirror. When we arrived at the worn brick building, he escorted me up the three flights of stairs, his hand resting casually inside his jacket.

I unlocked the door, my heart in my throat.

“Mom?” I called out, rushing into the small living room.

The apartment was quiet. The only light came from the small lamp in the corner. My mother was sitting in her rocking chair, holding a sleeping Leo against her chest. She looked up, startled by my sudden return and the large, intimidating man standing in the doorway behind me.

“Hannah? What’s wrong? Why are you home so early?”

I ran to her, falling to my knees beside the chair, tears spilling hot and fast down my cheeks as I looked at my son. Leo’s tiny chest rose and fell evenly, his dark hair curling slightly at the nape of his neck. He looked so much like David it shattered my heart all over again.

“We have to pack, Mom,” I whispered, trying to keep my voice steady so I wouldn't wake the baby. “Right now. Mr. Moretti is moving us.”

My mother’s eyes widened, but she saw the absolute terror in my face and didn't ask questions. Despite her swollen joints, she stood up, carefully handing Leo to me.

Marco stepped forward gently. “Ma'am, I will pack your bags. Just tell me what you need.”

While Marco emptied our dresser drawers into duffel bags, I sat on the edge of my unmade bed, holding my sleeping son. I rocked him gently, pressing my lips to his warm forehead.

As I adjusted Leo’s blanket, my foot brushed against something under the bed. It was the small cardboard shoebox where I kept David’s old belongings—things I hadn't been able to bear looking at since the funeral.

I pulled the box out with my free hand. The lid was slightly askew.

I frowned, setting the box on the mattress. I lifted the lid. Inside were David’s old work gloves, a faded baseball cap, and a stack of photographs from when we first started dating. But as I shifted the photos, something slipped out from between them.

It was a piece of heavy, expensive cardstock. Not a photograph.

I picked it up. It was a torn half of a larger picture, showing a luxurious marina. Written on the back, in David’s hurried, slanted handwriting, were three words:

Check the lining.

I froze. The lining.

I looked up at the closet where David’s heavy winter coat still hung, untouched since the day he died.

I laid Leo gently in the center of the bed, surrounding him with pillows, and walked to the closet. I pulled David’s wool coat off the hanger. It was heavy, smelling faintly of cedar and his old cologne. I ran my hands along the inside silk lining.

Near the bottom hem, on the left side, the stitching was slightly torn.

I slipped my fingers inside the gap. My heart hammered wildly as I felt a thick, folded piece of paper hidden deep within the fabric.

I pulled it out.

It was a bank ledger, printed on heavy blue paper. But the name at the top wasn't David’s. It wasn't Luca’s, either.

The account belonged to the Bellini Shipping Corporation. And the ledger detailed millions of dollars being transferred into offshore accounts—accounts tied directly to Vanessa Bellini.

David hadn't just been a driver. He had found proof that Vanessa was stealing from the Moretti syndicate to fund her own family's hostile takeover.

Before I could process the magnitude of what I was holding, Marco’s voice rang out from the living room, sharp and urgent.