His Fiancée Forgot to Hang Up—The Mafia Boss Heard Her Threaten the Maid

Twenty minutes later, Dominic’s SUV turned through the towering iron gates of Bellavista, the Varelli family’s limestone mansion perched high above the crashing surf of the Cliff Walk.

Before the vehicle even came to a full stop beneath the porte-cochère, the heavy oak front doors swung open. Vivien Morrow stepped out onto the marble portico, wrapped in an ivory cashmere coat, her blonde hair swept into an effortless twist that caught the amber glow of the carriageway lanterns.

"Dominic!" she called out warmly, waiting until his butler opened the door before stepping forward to press a light, practiced kiss against his cheek. Her perfume—white gardenia and sandalwood—filled the damp air. "You had me worried sick when our call cut out. The cell reception on this cliff gets worse every storm."

Dominic looked down at her. For eight months, he had viewed this woman as a sensible, composed partner—someone who understood the weight of the Varelli name and could manage the public charitable side of his shipping holdings without flinching. Now, looking into her clear blue eyes, he marveled at how seamlessly a sociopath could wear skin.

"The storm is interfering with a lot of signals tonight," Dominic said smoothly, keeping his voice at its usual measured baritone as they walked into the grand foyer. "You said you were upstairs checking on my mother?"

"Yes, the poor darling was exhausted," Vivien sighed, lightly touching the diamond ring on her left hand. "Marin was about to give her an evening sponge bath, so I didn't stay long. Actually, darling, after the gala tomorrow, you and I should really discuss bringing in a full-time agency nurse to replace Marin. She seemed awfully high-strung and defensive with me today. I worry the hours are making her unstable."

There it was—the exact preemptive seed she had promised to plant.

"We can discuss the household staff after tomorrow night," Dominic said neutrally, slipping off his wet overcoat and handing it to the butler. "Don't let me keep you from your final dress fitting in town, Vivien. My driver can follow your car down the hill to make sure the roads aren't flooded."

"You are always thinking of everything," Vivien beamed, squeezing his forearm before heading toward her waiting Mercedes. "See you at dinner at eight, my love."

The moment the front doors clicked shut behind her, every trace of warmth vanished from Dominic’s face. He took the grand marble staircase two steps at a time, moving down the quiet west wing corridor toward his mother’s private suite.

The door stood slightly ajar. Inside, the room smelled of lavender linen spray and sterile medical oxygen.

Isabella Varelli sat propped up in her adjustable bed near the bay windows, her silver hair neatly brushed, her dark eyes fixed intently on the doorway. Kneeling on the carpet beside the oxygen cart was Marin Hayes, dressed in pale grey caregiver scrubs, hurriedly wiping up a spilled glass of water while trying to slide a cracked cedar letter board beneath the bedskirt.

As Marin reached under the frame, the cuff of her scrub top rode up three inches. Across the pale skin of her left wrist was a fresh, rapidly purpling contusion where the heavy edge of the wooden board had struck her when she tried to shield Isabella from Vivien’s temper.