Chapter 2 - The Maid Who Gave OrdersBy midnight, every person inside the DeLuca penthouse knew one impossible truth.
The maid was in charge.
Not officially.
Not on paper.
But everyone could feel it.
Camryn Jenkins sat in the nursery rocking chair with Leo asleep against her chest, while Matteo DeLuca stood in the doorway like a soldier waiting for permission to enter his own battlefield.
The nursery was beautiful in the way rich people often confused beauty with comfort. Hand-painted clouds covered the ceiling. Imported wooden animals lined the shelves. A miniature cashmere blanket lay folded over the crib. There were silver frames, silk curtains, antique toys, and a chandelier shaped like stars.
But the room felt cold.
Too perfect.
Too quiet.
No finger paintings.
No crooked photos.
No stuffed animal missing an eye from being loved too hard.
Camryn looked around and understood something immediately.
Leo did not live in a home.
He lived inside a museum of grief.
“Where are his messy things?” she asked.
Matteo stood behind her. “His what?”
“Things he chose. Things he ruined. Things nobody replaced because they mattered to him.”
Matteo looked at the spotless shelves.
“He destroys everything.”
“Maybe because nothing feels like his.”
Matteo’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
That was the strange thing about him. Camryn had expected shouting. Threats. Ego. Men with too much power usually wore correction like an insult.
But Matteo listened.
Not because he was humble.
Because Leo was sleeping.
And for his son, the monster at the top of Manhattan would swallow his pride.
Camryn lowered her voice. “Who decorated this room?”
“My wife.”
The answer was instant.
Camryn regretted the question.
Matteo’s face did not change, but the air around him did.
“She designed every detail before he was born,” he said. “Isabella wanted him to feel like he was sleeping under the sky.”
Camryn looked up at the painted clouds.
For a moment, she could almost see the woman who had chosen them. A mother dreaming of soft nights, lullabies, tiny pajamas, and morning light.
Then Camryn looked at Leo.
“He may need permission to change it,” she said.
Matteo’s eyes sharpened. “Change what?”
“The room. His life. The part everyone froze the night she died.”
Matteo stepped inside.
The movement was quiet, but the emotion beneath it was not.
“Be careful,” he said.
Camryn met his gaze. “I am being careful.”
“With my son?”
“With both of you.”
The words landed too close.
Matteo looked away first.
At 1:06 a.m., Leo woke screaming.
His little body jerked upright, eyes wide and blind with terror.
“No fire! No fire!”
Camryn held him firmly but gently. “Leo, you’re here. You’re in your room. I’m Camryn. Your papa is at the door.”
Matteo moved forward.
Leo screamed louder.
Camryn lifted one hand. “Stop.”
Matteo stopped.
The command should have been absurd. A cleaning maid ordering a mafia boss to freeze in his own penthouse.
But he obeyed.
Camryn turned Leo slightly so he could see the room.
“Clouds,” she whispered. “Stars. Blue blanket. My gray shirt. Papa’s black suit. No fire.”
Leo shook violently.
“No boom,” he sobbed.
Matteo went pale.
Camryn heard it.
Boom.
The car explosion.
She had read about it like everyone else in New York. Isabella DeLuca, wife of alleged syndicate leader Matteo DeLuca, killed in a late-night vehicle explosion outside a private charity event. No arrests. No witnesses willing to speak. No justice.
The newspapers had called it a mob tragedy.
But Leo had been there.
Three years old now.
Barely one when it happened.
Old enough for his body to remember what his mouth could not explain.
Camryn rocked him slowly.
“No boom,” she whispered. “No fire.”
Leo cried until his voice broke.
Matteo stood by the wall, one hand pressed against his chest like something inside him hurt.
When Leo finally slept again, Camryn looked at him.
“He was with her?”
Matteo’s eyes closed.
“He was in the car seat.”
Camryn felt cold.
“The papers said Isabella was alone.”
“The papers print what they are told.”
Camryn looked down at the child in her arms.
“He survived the explosion?”
Matteo’s voice was rough. “A guard pulled him out before the second fire spread. Isabella…” He stopped. “She did not.”
Camryn understood then.
The rage. The silence. The violence.
Leo had not simply lost his mother.
He had watched the world explode with her inside it.
And every adult since had tried to manage his behavior without entering the fire with him.
“No more rotating staff,” Camryn said.
Matteo opened his eyes.
“He needs consistency,” she continued. “One small circle. Same faces. Same morning. Same meals. Same words when he wakes up scared.”
“You’ll create this routine.”
“I’ll help create it.”
“You’ll stay.”
“For now.”
Matteo studied her. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
He moved closer, stopping a careful distance away from the rocking chair.
“What will make you stay longer?”
Camryn almost said money.
She needed money badly enough that the thought burned.
Her mother’s hospital bills were stacked in a shoebox under her bed. Final notices. Payment plans. Insurance denials. Words that looked clean on paper but felt like hands around her throat.
But if she admitted that, Matteo DeLuca would use it.
Maybe kindly.
Maybe cruelly.
Either way, it would become a chain.
So she said, “Proof that this house can be safe.”
Matteo’s laugh was silent and bitter. “This is one of the safest residences in New York.”
“No,” Camryn said. “It’s guarded. That’s different.”
His eyes locked on hers.
She should have been afraid.
She was afraid.
But Leo’s small hand rested over her heart, and somehow that made fear less important.
By sunrise, Camryn had changed the rules of the penthouse.
The guards were moved farther from Leo’s rooms. Staff were told not to crowd him. Breakfast would be served in the kitchen, not the formal dining room. Leo’s toys would be placed in baskets he could reach. The nursery curtains would stay open during the day. The west hallway would remain quiet.
Matteo agreed to everything.
Until Camryn reached the final rule.
“No one calls him a demon again.”
Matteo’s face darkened.
“Who called him that?”
Camryn looked toward the foyer where Beatrice had left hours earlier.
“You heard her.”
Matteo’s voice dropped. “Rocco.”
The guard appeared instantly. “Yes, boss.”
“Find Beatrice.”
Camryn stood carefully with Leo still sleeping against her shoulder. “No.”
Matteo looked at her.
“She was wrong,” Camryn said. “But hurting her won’t heal him.”
Rocco stared at her like she had lost her mind.
Matteo’s expression became unreadable.
“And what would you suggest?” he asked.
“Make sure she never works with traumatized children again. Pay her severance. Let her go.”
“That is mercy she did not earn.”
“Maybe,” Camryn said. “But Leo is watching the kind of man you choose to be.”
The room went silent.
Matteo looked at his son.
Then he looked at Rocco.
“Do as she said.”
Rocco blinked. “All of it?”
“All of it.”
When he left, Camryn exhaled.
Matteo noticed.
“You thought I would refuse.”
“I thought you would punish her.”
“I still want to.”
“But you didn’t.”
Matteo’s gaze moved to Leo.
“No,” he said quietly. “I didn’t.”
That morning, as sunlight spilled across the kitchen tiles, Leo ate half a piece of buttered toast from Camryn’s hand.
The staff watched in stunned silence.
Matteo stood near the espresso machine, untouched coffee cooling beside him.
Then Leo looked up, pointed at Camryn, and said his second word.
“Mine.”
The entire kitchen froze.
Camryn gently tapped his nose. “Not mine, sweetheart. Camryn.”
Leo frowned.
“Cam.”
Matteo’s hand tightened around his cup.
Cam.
The boy had given her a name.
And from the doorway, unseen by everyone except Matteo, an older woman in pearls watched with cold, furious eyes.
Matteo’s mother had arrived.
May you like
And she did not look grateful.
She looked threatened.
