“I can’t believe you’re asking me this, Mom,” Isabella Reyes exclaimed while holding the phone with one hand and frantically digging through her suitcase with the other. “I just got back from Chicago after three years, and you already want me to go clean some mobster’s mansion.”
On the other end of the line, Rosa Reyes’s exhausted voice could barely hide her worry. The pneumonia diagnosis had been clear. The doctor ordered complete bed rest for at least a week.
“My dear, it’s only for a few days,” Rosa said weakly. “The Castellanos have been good to me for twenty years. I can’t leave them without help right when they’re organizing that important event.”
Isabella took a deep breath, swallowing the words she really wanted to say. At twenty-seven years old, with a nursing degree and three years of running from an abusive ex-husband, the last thing she wanted was to step into the world of dangerous men again.
But her mother’s pale face, lying helpless in the cramped Brooklyn apartment they shared, was a stronger argument than any logic. The faded scar on Isabella’s shoulder throbbed as if reminding her of the price she’d already paid for trusting the wrong man.
“Can’t you find someone else?” she tried one last time, though she already knew the answer.
“No one knows that house like we do, Bella. And they trust me.”
Trust us. Isabella looked out the window of their modest apartment in Brooklyn. In the distance, the glittering skyline of Manhattan rose like a constant reminder of the chasm separating her world from the Castellanos.
“Fine,” she finally gave in. “But I’m not wearing that ugly uniform you always wear.”
“If they want me to clean their house, I’ll do it my way,” she added firmly.
“Bella, please,” Rosa pleaded between coughs.
“My way or nothing, Mom. I’m not the broken girl who ran away three years ago.”
The silence on the other end was all the answer she needed. Isabella smiled, knowing she had won this small battle. But deep down, she had no idea that walking into the Castellano mansion would change everything. She didn’t know that the ice-cold mafia boss, who had never bowed to anyone, would find himself completely undone by a woman in ripped jeans and an attitude sharper than any knife.
The next morning, the taxi stopped in front of the towering black iron gates of the Castellano estate. Isabella stepped out of the car, slinging her old backpack over one shoulder, and stood frozen as she stared at the massive structure before her. She’d chosen her outfit carefully for this first day.
She wore a pair of blue jeans torn at the knees, a white shirt tied at the waist to reveal a slim stretch of skin, and worn sneakers. Her long black hair fell naturally over her shoulders, with no makeup at all except a faint layer of lip balm. This wasn’t the outfit of a housemaid, and she knew it.
Two men in black suits stood guard at the gate, looking her up and down with open suspicion.
“What do you want?” one of them asked coldly, without a trace of courtesy.
Isabella lifted her chin and met his gaze directly. “I’m Isabella Reyes, Rosa Reyes’s daughter. I’m here to replace my mother at work this week.”
The guard raised an eyebrow, his eyes sweeping over her clothes once more. “Are you sure you’ve come to the right place?” he asked with thinly veiled mockery. “Maids don’t usually dress like this.”
Isabella felt anger flare in her chest, but she restrained it and offered a cool smile. “I don’t know how maids here usually dress, but I dress my own way. Now, you can call inside to confirm, or I can turn around and tell my mother that the Castellano house will have to manage on its own this week.”
The guard hesitated, taken aback by her sharp reply. He exchanged a glance with his colleague, then reluctantly lifted the phone to call inside. After several tense minutes of waiting, the iron gates slowly swung open.
Isabella stepped through, feeling the burning stares of the two guards on her back. The white gravel driveway curved through an immense garden of perfectly trimmed green lawns, blooming rose bushes, and scattered marble statues. Isabella struggled to keep her face calm, but inside she was reeling.
Her mother had worked here for twenty years, and she’d never truly imagined such luxury. The main mansion rose before her, an imposing Italian-style structure with soaring white columns, delicately wrought iron balconies, and a massive oak door. Isabella climbed the marble steps and was about to ring the bell when the door opened.
An older woman stood there, her silver hair neatly pinned into a bun, her face severe with deep lines around her mouth. She wore a dark gray suit and stood upright like a pine tree in a storm.
“You’re Rosa’s daughter,” she said, not as a question but as a statement, her sharp eyes sweeping over Isabella’s clothes. “I’m Margaret Stone, but everyone calls me Maggie. I’m the housekeeper of this estate.”
Isabella nodded. “Yes, I’m Isabella. My mother has told me about you.”
Maggie didn’t return the greeting. She merely stepped aside. “Come in. The master wants to see you before you begin work.”
Isabella stepped inside and immediately felt as if she’d entered another world. The main hall was vast, its soaring ceiling adorned with exquisite frescoes. A gigantic crystal chandelier hung above, casting shimmering light across the black-and-white marble floor.
Oil paintings in gilded frames lined the walls, each one likely worth more than the building where she and her mother lived. Isabella swallowed and forced herself to remain composed. She followed Maggie through endless corridors, her footsteps echoing on the cold stone floor.
From time to time, she caught sight of men in black suits standing guard at corners, and she didn’t miss the outlines of guns hidden beneath their jackets. This isn’t an ordinary wealthy family, Isabella thought, recalling her mother’s warnings. Never ask about the Castellano family’s business. Never look at what you aren’t meant to see, and never speak of anything you hear.
Maggie stopped before a heavy wooden door at the end of the corridor. She turned to Isabella with an unreadable expression. “The master doesn’t like disobedience,” she said quietly. “You should be careful about how you dress and how you speak.”
Isabella answered with a thin smile. “I came here to work, not to be a slave.”
Maggie studied her for a long moment, then sighed and knocked. A deep male voice came from inside. “Come in.”
Maggie pushed the door open and stepped aside, revealing a large study beyond. “Mr. Castellano,” she said. “This is Isabella Reyes, Rosa’s daughter.”
Isabella drew a deep breath and stepped forward, unaware that her life was about to change completely from this moment on. The study was larger than Isabella had imagined, with exquisitely carved oak bookshelves covering three walls, a massive walnut desk positioned at the center of the room, and floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the rear garden. Yet, all that luxury faded the moment Isabella saw the man seated behind the desk.
Maxwell Castellano was bent over a stack of documents, one hand holding a pen, the other supporting his forehead. Beside him stood a broad-shouldered, middle-aged man Isabella guessed was a bodyguard, while two other men remained motionless like statues in the corners of the room. Max didn’t look up when she entered, continuing to read as if her presence wasn’t worth his attention.
Isabella stood still in the middle of the room, saying nothing and not lowering her head to wait. She studied him in silence. His black hair was neatly slicked back, revealing a sharp-featured face with a defined jawline and a faint scar running from his temple toward the corner of his mouth.
He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. The collar opened to reveal part of a dark tattoo hidden beneath the fabric. Even while merely reading documents, he radiated a frightening authority that made the air in the room feel thick and heavy.
This is the man my mother has served for twenty years, Isabella thought, the man rumored to have killed countless people without a trembling hand.
At last, after nearly a minute of tense silence, Max lifted his head, and his cold gray eyes met Isabella’s gaze. He froze. The hand holding the pen stopped in midair.
His eyes widened for a brief instant, then slowly traveled from her face to her shoulders, to the white shirt tied at the waist, to the ripped jeans, and finally to her worn sneakers. When his gaze returned to her face, Isabella caught something flicker in those gray eyes—something she couldn’t name, yet it made her heart skip a beat.
Max set the pen down and leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving her. “You are Rosa’s daughter,” he said in a low, rough voice, not a question but a confirmation.
Isabella gave a slight nod. “Yes, Isabella Reyes. I am here to replace my mother this week.”
Max was silent for a moment, his gaze still sweeping over her outfit with an unreadable expression. Then he spoke, his voice cold as stone. “I appreciate you coming to help your mother, but there are rules in this house that you must follow, starting with wearing the uniform.”
Isabella felt heat rise in her chest, but she kept her voice calm. “Good morning to you as well, Mr. Castellano. And I’m sorry to inform you that I won’t be wearing any uniform. My mother may accept that, but I won’t.”
A deadly silence fell over the room. The broad-shouldered guard beside Max, the man Isabella would later learn was named Tony, stared at her as if she’d just grown another head. The two men in the corner exchanged stunned glances. No one spoke to Don Castellano that way. No one dared.
Max slowly stood up, and only then did Isabella realize how tall he was. He walked around the desk, each step echoing on the wooden floor like a war drum. He stopped less than a step away from her and looked down at her with icy eyes.
“Do you know who you’re talking to?” he asked, his voice low and threatening.
Isabella lifted her chin and met his gray stare without backing away, though her heart was pounding in her chest. “I do,” she replied steadily. “You are Maxwell Castellano, my mother’s employer, the man she has devoted twenty years of her life to serving. But I am not my mother. I came here to work, not to be turned into decoration in a uniform. If you can’t accept that, I’ll leave right now, and you can find someone else.”