Maid To The Three Mafia Kings

Of course, they were drinking champagne.

Parties like this always had champagne. It was the preferred drink of people trying very hard to look effortlessly rich, effortlessly interesting, and completely satisfied with their lives.

The penthouse of Moretti Tower sat high above Atlanta, all glass walls, expensive furniture, and a view designed to remind everyone exactly how much money it had cost.

Around sixty guests filled the place, doing the same three things they had probably been doing for hours: drinking, gossiping, and checking whether anyone important was watching them.

Atlanta glittered far below. From up there, it was easy to feel removed from the rest of the city. The people inside certainly seemed to. But Atlanta didn't care who owned the penthouse or how expensive the champagne was. It just kept going beneath them.

The DJ had settled into a steady beat loud enough to discourage any conversation that required actual thought. Waiters moved between guests with trays of drinks, smiling politely whenever someone stopped them.

And beneath the music, one name kept coming up.

Giovanni Aidan Moretti.

The man the entire party was supposedly for.

The women nearest the staircase kept glancing toward the second floor, where one of the doors had remained closed all night. Every few minutes, someone looked up there and then leaned toward a friend.

“Seen him yet?” A blonde?" asked the brunette beside her.

“Nope.”

That only seemed to make him more interesting.

In the underworld, Giovanni Aidan Moretti was a name that carried real weight. He controlled the southern territories of the Moretti empire, and despite his age, no one seemed inclined to question why.

Young, polished, and notoriously private, he had the kind of distance people often mistook for mystery. Maybe it was. Maybe he simply didn't like people.

Either way, the party was being held in honor of his newest business venture, although no one seemed willing to say exactly what that venture involved.

By sunrise, the crowd had thinned.

Then it disappeared altogether.

Guests stumbled into elevators and left in town cars and rideshares, taking their gossip with them. High heels clicked across the floor. Goodbyes were exchanged. Numbers were probably given to people who would never use them.

And Giovanni Aidan Moretti never showed his face.

By the time the last guest left, the penthouse looked less impressive.

Champagne flutes had been abandoned on tables and knocked onto their sides. Napkins were crumpled beneath chairs. Empty bottles crowded the counters, and the dance floor that had looked glamorous under dim lighting now looked sticky and vaguely regrettable.

At 8:45 a.m., the elevator chimed again.

Millie Foster stepped out.

Her hair was pulled into a bun, and she wore a plain black hoodie with jeans and comfortable shoes. A tote bag hung from one shoulder, already stuffed with everything she expected to need.

At twenty-five, Millie knew there was always a morning after somebody else's fun night.

And this one was going to take hours.

She stopped just inside the penthouse and surveyed the damage.

Broken glass near the bar.

Sticky floor by the couches.

Enough dirty dishes to make her reconsider every decision that had brought her there.

She sighed and headed for the kitchen.

The dishes came first. Then the counters. Then the bottles. She worked steadily, moving through the mess without wasting time complaining about it. Complaining wouldn't get her out of there any faster.

By the time she reached the living room, sunlight had flooded the penthouse and exposed every stain the party lighting had kindly hidden.

Millie checked her phone.

10:00 a.m.

She needed to get to the patio soon, or the rest of her schedule would be thrown off.

She bent to straighten a pile of fashion magazines someone had left scattered across the coffee table when a low moan came from somewhere behind her.

Millie froze.

That definitely hadn't come from the elevator.

“What the hell?”

She turned.

A man was sitting up on the couch.

For one embarrassing second, Millie forgot what she was doing.

His shirt was only half-buttoned, exposing a chest that made it difficult not to look twice. His boxers showed above the waistband of his pants, and tattoos covered both arms. His dark hair was a complete mess, although on him it somehow looked intentional.

Then he opened his eyes.

They were blue.

Very blue.

And currently narrowed at the sunlight pouring through the windows.

Millie stared at him.

Who the hell was this guy?

He blinked a few times before finally focusing on her.

“You must be the cleaning lady.”

His voice was rough from sleep, and he said it with the casual certainty of someone who had never once worried about finding a stranger inside his home.

Millie straightened.

“And you must be Mr. Moretti?”

She immediately hated how high her voice came out.

The man groaned and dragged a hand over his face.

“You make me sound old.” He leaned back against the couch. “Aidan Moretti. And yes, that's me. But call me Aidan.”

So this was him.

The man everyone had spent half the night looking for had apparently been asleep on his own couch.

Aidan squinted toward the windows and grimaced.

“And please do something about that window. I need blackout curtains. My brain is staging a mosh pit.”

Millie glanced at the enormous wall of glass.

“Blackout curtains?”

“Yes.”

“That might make cleaning a little difficult, Mr. Moretti.”

“Aidan,” he corrected.

She looked back at him.

He crossed his arms. “You can start cleaning after I wake up.”

Millie almost laughed.

He was serious.

Of course he was.

“You could go back to your room,” she suggested. “I'll keep it down out here.”

“I want to sleep on the couch.”

Millie stared at him for a moment.

He stared back.

Apparently that settled it.

“So let me sleep,” he continued. “Wait until I wake up, then you can finish cleaning. Have a bottle of wine outside while you wait if you want. I won't report you.”

Millie pressed her lips together.

He said it as he had just offered her a paid vacation instead of several hours sitting around while he slept off whatever he'd done the night before.

She had another client waiting for her after lunch. A client who probably wouldn't appreciate hearing that Millie was late because Giovanni Aidan Moretti had decided his couch was the only acceptable place in a penthouse full of bedrooms.

“Actually, I have somewhere to be after lunch, Mr. Moretti.”

“Aidan,” he corrected again. “Let's skip the formalities.”

He lifted an eyebrow.

Millie ignored it.

“I have another client's house to clean.”

“Cancel it.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I'll triple your rate.”

Millie stared at him.

He looked completely serious.

“I think you heard me, Miss...”

Millie heard him. She just couldn't believe he'd said it so casually.

Triple her rate.

For what? Waiting around while he slept?

Of course, money probably solved most problems in Aidan Moretti's world. If something inconvenienced him, he paid for it until it stopped being inconvenient.

Unfortunately, the offer was tempting.

Triple her rate would take care of the warning light that had been glowing on her dashboard for the past two weeks. The one she'd been ignoring because getting it checked meant spending money she didn't have.

Still, canceling on another client because someone richer had offered her more wasn't something she could do.

“That's a generous offer,” she said. “But I'm not canceling on someone at the last minute.”

Aidan watched her without saying anything.

Millie thought for a second.

“How about this? I can push my next appointment back and come here again afterward. I finish cleaning, and you get your beauty sl