When His Maid Didn’t Show Up, the Mafia Boss Went Himself — And Saw the Truth

But at 4B, there was something else. The door was unlocked. It wasn’t just unlocked; it was slightly ajar.

The wood around the frame was splintered, as if it had been kicked in and then hastily pushed back. Victoriao drew his weapon, a custom suppressed 9mm, smoothly from his holster. Dante did the same instantly.

The concern for a missing employee had vanished, replaced by the tactical precision of a soldier entering a kill zone. Victoriao pushed the door open with his foot. The apartment was small, a studio, but unlike the hallway, it was immaculate.

Even here in this squalor, Camila was a neat freak. The threadbare rug was vacuumed, and the few dishes were stacked perfectly. But the order had been violated.

A chair was overturned, and a lamp lay shattered on the floor. And there, huddled in the corner between the kitchenette and the bed, was Camila. She wasn’t dead, but she looked like she wished she were.

She was curled into a ball, clutching a kitchen knife with trembling hands. Her face, usually pale and composed, was bruised purple along the jawline. Her lip was split.

But what froze Victoriao’s blood wasn’t her injuries. It was what was behind her. Behind her, cowering under the small table, was a child—a little girl no older than five, with wide, terrified eyes that matched Camila’s perfectly.

Standing over them was a man. He was greasy, wearing a leather jacket that had seen better decades, and holding a heavy bat. He was screaming at her, his back to the door.

“Don’t give me that silence crap, you mute bitch! I know you have the money. You work for the high rollers uptown. Pay up, or I take the kid as collateral!” The man yelled.

The man raised the bat. Camila didn’t scream; she didn’t beg. She just tightened her grip on the small knife, preparing to take the blow to protect the child.

“Drop it,” Victoriao said.

The voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the room like a razor blade. The man with the bat spun around. When he saw two men in $5,000 suits holding suppressed pistols pointed at his chest, the color drained from his face.

“Who the hell are you?” The thug stammered, lowering the bat slightly but not dropping it.

“This is private business. She owes the sharks.” He claimed.

“The sharks?” Dante scoffed, stepping into the room.

“That two-bit street gang? You’re robbing single mothers now?” Dante asked.

Victoriao didn’t look at the thug; he looked at Camila. Her eyes locked with his. Shock, shame, and terror flooded her expression.

She lowered the knife slowly, her hands shaking so hard the blade rattled against the floor.

“Camila,” Victoriao said softly.

“Come here.” He instructed.

“Stay back!” The thug yelled, trying to regain control.

He made a fatal error. He stepped toward the child, grabbing the girl’s arm to use her as a shield.

“I said back off, or the kid gets it!” He threatened.

The air in the room shifted. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Victoria didn’t blink; he didn’t hesitate.

He raised his arm. Thwip—a single shot. The thug stiffened, a neat hole appearing in the center of his forehead.

He collapsed backward, dead before he hit the linoleum. The bat clattered harmlessly away. The little girl screamed, but no sound came out.

She just opened her mouth in a silent wail, burying her face in Camila’s neck. Camila scrambled back, pulling the child into her lap and covering the girl’s eyes. She looked up at Victoria, her chest heaving.

She looked at the dead man, then back at her boss.

“Pack a bag,” Victoriao said, holstering his weapon as if he had just checked the time.

Camila stared at him, paralyzed.

“Dante, get the body out of here. Call the cleaners,” Victoriao ordered, stepping over the corpse.

He crouched down in front of Camila. He didn’t touch her; he knew better than to touch a cornered animal.

“Camila,” He said, his voice surprisingly gentle—a tone Dante had never heard him use.

“You are not safe here. The sharks will come looking for him. You are coming with me.” He told her.

Camila shook her head frantically. She pointed to the child, then to the door, making frantic hand signs.

“No, I can’t. Too dangerous.” She signaled.

Victoria frowned. He realized then that in three months, he had never heard her speak. He thought she was just quiet; he didn’t realize she couldn’t or wouldn’t.

“I am not asking,” Victoriao said, standing up and extending a hand.

“I am Victoriao Rossi. The only danger in my house is me, and I decide who gets hurt.” He declared.

He looked at the little girl.

“Is she yours?” He asked.

Camila hesitated, then shook her head.

“No.” She signaled.

She pointed to a framed photo on the dresser—a woman who looked like Camila but older, happier.

“Sister,” Victoriao guessed.

Camila nodded, tears streaming down her bruised face.

“Get the child,” Victoriao commanded.

“We leave now.” He ordered.

The Debt of Blood

The ride back to the penthouse was silent. The little girl, whose name Camila had written on a notepad as Lily, had fallen asleep in the back seat, exhausted by the adrenaline crash. Camila sat stiffly next to her, clutching a worn backpack that contained their entire lives.

She kept glancing at Victoriao. He was on his phone, issuing orders about a shipment of weapons from Europe, discussing millions of dollars as if he were ordering pizza. He hadn’t asked her a single question since they left the apartment.

Why? Why had he come? Men like Victoria Rossi didn’t save the help; they replaced them.

When they arrived at the Obsidian Tower, Rocco drove into the private underground garage. They took the express elevator up. When the doors opened into the penthouse, Camila flinched.

She was used to entering this space in a uniform, invisible, scrubbing the floors. Now she was standing there in muddy sneakers and a torn sweater, holding a sleeping child, while the master of the house poured himself a drink.

“Dante,” Victoriao said, tossing his jacket onto the sofa.

“Set up the guest wing, the East Suite.” He directed.

Dante’s eyebrows shot up.

“The East Suite, boss? That’s right next to your quarters. Maybe the guest rooms on the lower level would be…” Dante started.

“The East Suite,” Victoriao repeated, pouring a second glass of amber liquid.

He walked over to Camila and held it out.

“Brandy. It will help with the shock.” He said.

Camila stared at the glass. Her hands were still trembling. She took it, the crystal clinking against her teeth as she took a sip.