The Maid with a Secret

Valdraven – The Virello Estate – Midnight

The scent of expensive cigars and aged whiskey lingered in the air, mixing with the soft hum of classical music. The Virello Estate was alive tonight—men in tailored suits and women draped in silk and diamonds moved through the grand ballroom, discussing power, wealth, and bloodshed.

Isabella Morelli moved among them like a ghost, dressed in a plain black-and-white maid's uniform, her head bowed, posture obedient. She wasn't one of them—not tonight. She was just another servant in the Castellano-controlled mansion, a nameless face in a city ruled by crime.

And that was exactly how she wanted it to be.

With a silver tray balanced in her hands, she weaved through the crowd, offering crystal glasses filled with golden liquor. She had done this dozens of times before. Serve the elites, stay silent, blend into the background. No one noticed the help. No one looked twice at the girl wiping their floors.

But tonight, something felt off.

She could sense it in the air—a shift in the usual routine, a tension settling over the room like a silent storm waiting to break. The Castellanos were hosting this event for a reason. A reason she had yet to uncover.

A deep voice cut through the chatter, pulling her attention.

"Do you have any idea what you're asking, Dante?"

Her fingers stilled around the tray's edge. That name—Dante Castellano. The heir of the Castellano empire. Ruthless. Unpredictable. A man whispered about in dark alleys and feared in high places.

Without lifting her head, she let her eyes drift toward the source of the voice.

Dante stood near the grand staircase, speaking to an older man. Unlike the other guests in tuxedos and wealth-dripping accessories, Dante wore a tailored black shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The inked veins of tattoos traced his forearms, the dark patterns shifting as he moved.

His expression was unreadable, but there was something dangerous about his stillness, the way his fingers played idly with the rim of his glass.

Belle had never been this close to him before. She had avoided him at all costs.

Now, she was standing barely a few feet away.

"You know the Morellis won't take this lightly," the older man warned.

Dante exhaled a slow breath, swirling the whiskey in his glass. His next words were calm, almost amused.

"I expect them to react. That's the point."

Belle's grip on the tray tightened. The Morellis.

Her family. Or at least, the family she had been raised to believe she belonged to.

She knew better than to let her curiosity linger, but the conversation pulled at her instincts. She took a slow step closer, shifting her body as if reaching for an empty glass from a nearby table. Just close enough to hear more.

But she made one mistake.

Dante's gaze flickered in her direction.

It lasted less than a second. A passing glance.

And yet—it wasn't.

His eyes didn't just move over her like the others. They lingered, sharp and calculating, dragging over her face, her posture, the way she carried herself.

Belle swallowed, lowering her head. Did he recognize her? Impossible. She had been careful. She had lived in the shadows for years.

And yet—something in his smirk said otherwise.

He didn't say a word. Didn't call her out.

Instead, he tilted his head ever so slightly, as if inviting her to keep listening. As if daring her to play his game.

Belle's pulse quickened. This was bad.

She turned sharply, stepping away before he could watch her any longer. She needed to leave. Now.

But just as she reached the side doors leading to the servant's hall—

A hand closed around her wrist.

She froze.

The grip wasn't rough. It wasn't forceful. But it was unshakable. A grip that said I caught you. A grip that sent a sharp jolt of awareness through her spine.

Slowly, she turned her head.

Dante Castellano stood there, staring down at her with a look that was both amused and predatory.

His grip didn't tighten, didn't yank—he didn't need to. His very presence was enough to hold her in place.

"Tell me, little maid… why do you walk like a soldier?"

Belle's blood ran cold.

He knew.

He might not have figured everything out yet, but he had noticed something.

Her mind raced for a response, but before she could form the words, Dante did something that made her breath catch.

He let go.

Just like that.

As if letting her know that if she ran—he would enjoy the chase.

"You're new here, aren't you?" he mused, watching her too closely.

Belle forced herself to keep her expression neutral. "Yes, sir."

A beat of silence. Then, a smirk. Dark. Slow. Knowing.

"Good. Then you won't mind serving me for the rest of the night."

Her stomach twisted. No. No, no, no.

Being assigned to Dante Castellano for the night meant being in his space, under his scrutiny, and most importantly—it meant she had nowhere to hide.

But refusing wasn't an option. Not without raising suspicions.

So, with a carefully measured breath, Belle nodded. "As you wish, sir."

Dante's gaze flickered to her one last time before he turned, walking toward the VIP lounge.

Belle exhaled slowly, fingers curling into a fist by her side.

She had made a mistake tonight.

And she had just caught the attention of the most dangerous man in Valdraven.