The Mafia Boss's Obsession

"Everyone, remember: keep your trays steady and don't let your eyes wander. Especially around Mr. Morandi—if anyone breaks the rules, you're on your own."

The head server stopped in front of me, tapping his knuckle against the name tag on my chest and reading out the fake name.

"Lia? The temp from the kitchen?" He narrowed his eyes. "I've never seen you before."

I kept my gaze lowered, making my voice hoarse and weary. "I just started. The supervisor told me to cover the main building first."

The head server sneered. "Keep your eyes to yourself, or you won't even know how you died."

"Yes, sir." I bowed my head respectfully, holding the silver tray steady.

Only then did he release me with satisfaction, gesturing for everyone to get to work.

I followed the others through the manor's corridors toward the main building.

A glass of whiskey sat on my tray, ice clinking softly. Hidden in my skirt pocket was a dagger—Vera had said the blade was coated with snake venom, and even a scratch would be enough.

Tonight, I was going to kill someone.

The most powerful Mafia godfather on Valdoro Island—Carlo Morandi.

Men in black suits were everywhere in the manor, guns holstered at their waists. Their eyes didn't watch the drinks—they watched hands, waists, shoe soles, and cuffs. I kept my head down, matching my breathing and footsteps to the rhythm of the other servers. My makeup was heavy: highlighter on my brow bones, contour on my cheekbones. I couldn't even recognize myself in the mirror.

This was the first skill I'd ever learned.

My father had established himself in the underworld when he was young, eventually taking control of a branch of the Belmont family's operations. Growing up, I'd accompanied him to countless social functions. To protect myself, I'd learned disguise at the age of ten—not just makeup, but adjusting my gait, the rhythm of my breathing, the way I looked at people, transforming myself into someone else entirely.

I pretended to be accustomed to the guns and air of death surrounding me.

Only I knew my palms were slick with cold sweat. Yet the tray didn't waver even slightly.

Three days ago, my father had been ambushed on his way to Belmare. His entire convoy was wiped out, every bodyguard killed, and the hospital had sent me nothing but a cold death certificate.

But I didn't believe a single word of it.

My father took security extremely seriously. Whenever he traveled, he never told anyone his real route and would change vehicles at the last minute. Whoever had trapped him on that road must have obtained his itinerary in advance.

"Your father owed the Morandi family thirty million," Vera had said, sitting in the living room with red-rimmed eyes. "They came to collect, and when he couldn't pay, they..."

She didn't finish, covering her mouth as she cried.

I stood in the center of the living room, my mind filled with the sound of my father's voice during our last phone call. He'd said, "Serena, I'm handling some business these next few days. When I'm done, I'll take you to Monterosa."

Those were his last words to me.

After Vera finished crying, she wiped her tears and pulled the dagger from a drawer.

"This blade has snake venom on it—an old Valdoro Island craftsman's work." She handed me the dagger, her fingertips brushing my hand with a coldness that made me instinctively want to pull away. "Carlo is hosting a banquet at his manor in three days. I've already gotten you a job as a server."

I looked at her. "You want me to kill him?"

"Don't you want to?" Vera stared at me, the living room's crystal chandelier reflected in her eyes. "That man killed your father. And your fiancé, that coward Luca..."

My stomach clenched violently.

Luca was my fiancé. He had kissed my forehead once and promised me the most magnificent wedding in the world.

But the day my father died, I couldn't reach him.

It wasn't until that evening that he finally sent me a message.

He wrote: [Serena, I'm very sorry, but my family won't allow me to have any further contact with you. Your father offended the Morandi family, and this isn't trouble I can resolve. Take care.]

Then he blocked me.

Three years meant nothing to him. He didn't even have the courage to say goodbye in person—only through cowardly text.

My last shred of hope for him shattered completely with that message.

That day, I lost both the father who loved me most and the fiancé I loved most.

I didn't entirely trust Vera.

But my father's death, Luca's broken engagement, the Morandi family's name—everything twisted together into a rope around my neck.

So I had to come myself, even if it meant gambling with my life.

At the end of the corridor stood an oak door with two guards posted outside. I let my shoulders sag slightly, emptying my expression to show the numb exhaustion of an overworked server.

"Mr. Morandi's drinks." I lifted the tray slightly.

I didn't avoid his gaze, nor did I stare. I waited patiently.

His eyes swept from the rim of the glasses to my cuffs, then down to my hem. Static crackled faintly in his earpiece. He paused for half a second before stepping aside.

"Go in."

The guard moved out of the way.

I pushed open the door. The room was large, with a fireplace burning and bookshelves stretching from floor to ceiling. In the center stood an oak desk, and behind it sat a man.

He wasn't wearing a suit jacket—only a black shirt with sleeves rolled to his forearms. He was reviewing documents, lamplight falling across his hands. They were beautiful hands, with distinct knuckles and a faint old scar on his middle finger.

These were the hands Vera said hadn't let my father come home alive.

I set the drinks on the edge of the desk, my right hand slowly sliding toward my skirt pocket. The dagger's handle had warmed against my body, fitting perfectly in my palm.

"Mr. Morandi, your drinks."

He didn't look up.

My fingers closed around the hilt, my heartbeat drumming in my ears, but my face remained perfectly calm. I gripped the handle tighter, focusing on his neck, waiting for exactly the right moment.

One cut. Then I'd leave.

The instant I drew the dagger from my pocket, I suddenly noticed the corner of a photograph peeking out from beneath the document folder. The hand resting on someone's shoulder—I recognized it immediately.

It was my father's hand.

I yanked out the photograph. It showed Carlo Morandi and my father standing together on a yacht. In the photo, my father was smiling easily, his hand resting on Carlo's shoulder with the casual familiarity of someone who had known him for many years.

What did this mean?

Why would my father have a photograph with the man who killed him?

That one second of hesitation was fatal.

The man who had never looked up finally raised his eyes.

They were deep gray, cold and still as ice.

He looked at me, his gaze passing over the dagger without the slightest ripple, as if he'd expected me to be standing here all along.

"Serena Belmont." He spoke my full name, his voice low and rough. "Vera's poison expired a long time ago."

I didn't release my grip. I didn't dare. Even without poison, the knife was still there—it gave me a fragile sense of security.

He stood and circled around the desk, his steps unhurried yet forcing me backward with each one. My back hit the door before I realized I'd run out of room.

The guards outside didn't enter.

The study held only the soft crackle of the fireplace and my increasingly heavy heartbeat.

His eyes dropped to my wrist, his voice cold and emotionless. "Your grip is wrong. At that angle, you couldn't even manage to hurt me."

The moment his words fell, his hand had already closed around my wrist.