THE MAID OF MORETTI MANSION: THE CHOICE THAT ROCKED THE UNDERWORLD

Dmitri Kosoff’s cold blue eyes lingered on Luna with an intensity that made her skin crawl. The silverware clinked against fine china at the surrounding tables, and laughter drifted from the center of the ballroom, but right where she stood, the air felt suffocating.

“Three years is a long time to keep your mouth shut in a house like this, little maid,” Dmitri murmured, leaning slightly forward. His voice carried a smooth, venomous edge. “Especially when you serve people who talk while they drink. I wonder how much a clever girl like you hears when she changes the linens or polishes the silver in the master study.”

Luna kept her eyes lowered, clutching the edge of her silver tray until her knuckles turned white.

“I only do my job, sir,” she said, her voice barely rising above a whisper.

“Of course you do,” Dmitri smiled thinly, reaching out with a manicured hand to lightly brush the rim of an empty wine glass. “Everyone is just doing their job until the wrong person offers them a better price. Tell me, does Don Salvatore pay you enough to risk your neck when the Voronkov syndicate starts asking questions about Moretti shipping routes?”

Before Luna could force any words past the sudden tightness in her throat, a heavy hand gripped Dmitri’s shoulder from behind.

The pressure was absolute, immediate, and terrifying.

Dmitri froze. The smile vanished from his face as the temperature around table six dropped to freezing.

Luna looked up.

Luca Moretti stood directly behind Dmitri’s chair. His tuxedo jacket was unbuttoned, his green eyes locked onto the Russian visitor with a cold, murderous fury. He hadn’t raised his voice, but the silence that rippled outward from his presence caused half the table to lean away.

“Dmitri,” Luca said, his voice smooth as glass and heavy as lead. “Are you bothering my staff?”

Dmitri forced a tight, rigid smile, slowly turning his head to look up at the future head of the Moretti family. “Not at all, Luca. Just... inquiring about the service. It’s exceptional. Naturally.”

“My staff report to me, not to guests,” Luca replied, his fingers tightening on Dmitri’s shoulder until a slight wince crossed the Russian’s face. “If I ever see you address a worker in my house again, you won't make it out of the driveway. Do we understand each other?”

“Crystal clear,” Dmitri choked out.

Luca shifted his gaze down to Luna. His expression softened just enough for only her to see, a brief flicker of profound warmth beneath the hard shell of his public persona.

“Leave us, Luna,” he said quietly. “Take the tray to the kitchen. You’re done on the floor for the night.”

Luna dipped her head, murmured a quick apology, and retreated toward the service doors.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. Dmitri Kosoff’s words echoed in her mind. Shipping routes. Syndicates. She was just a maid who cleaned dust and washed linens, but tonight she had been pulled dangerously close to a violent world she had spent three years trying to ignore.

Once safely inside the kitchen, she set the heavy tray down on the stainless-steel table and gripped the edge to steady her shaking hands.

“Are you alright, mija?” Maria asked, walking over with a worried frown. “I saw Dmitri talking to you. That man is a snake. Don't ever let him corner you alone.”

“I’m fine, Maria,” Luna lied, wiping her palms on her apron. “Just... dropped a glass earlier. Nerves.”

“Well, you won't have to worry much longer,” Maria sighed, crossing her arms. “The announcement is coming up soon. Don Salvatore is clearing the ballroom floor right now. Everyone is gathering around the grand staircase.”

Luna’s stomach twisted into a painful knot.

The moment of truth had arrived. Out there, one hundred powerful women stood waiting to hear which of their names Luca Moretti would call.

She turned away from the kitchen staff and slipped quietly through the side service corridor, drawn like a moth to a flame toward the grand staircase. She didn't want to see it, but she couldn't make herself walk away.

Through the polished mahogany slats of the interior balcony on the second floor, Luna looked down into the glittering expanse of the ballroom.

The hundred candidates stood arranged in a semi-circle beneath the crystal chandelier, looking breathtaking in their designer gowns. Katarina Vulov stood front and center, her platinum hair shining, a victorious smile already curving her painted lips.

At the top of the grand staircase, Don Salvatore stood leaning heavily on an ebony cane, his breath shallow but his posture rigid. Beside him stood Luca.

The microphone feed hissed softly as Vincent Torino tapped it to test the sound.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Don Salvatore’s raspy voice echoed through the soaring hall. “Tonight, our family stands at a crossroads. Tradition demands that we choose our path forward through alliance, unity, and strength.”

A hush fell over the room. You could have heard a pin drop on the marble floor.

Katarina stepped half a step forward, her eyes locked on Luca with absolute confidence.

Don Salvatore paused, looking down at the sea of wealthy, powerful daughters. Then, slowly, he turned his head and looked toward his son.

“Luca,” the old man said into the microphone. “The choice is yours. Choose your bride. Choose the mother of the next generation of Morettis.”

Luca stepped up to the microphone.

He didn't look at Katarina. He didn't look at any of the daughters of the one hundred allied families who had traveled across continents for this exact moment.

Instead, Luca’s green eyes swept slowly over the crowd, past the glittering diamonds and designer silks, locking upward toward the second-floor balcony where Luna stood half-hidden in the shadows.

He raised his hand.

He didn't point at the platinum-haired Russian heiress. He didn't point at the front row of elite royalty.

Luca pointed straight up at the service balcony.