Page 36 of Mafia Pregnancy

By five o’clock, most of the household staff has finished their shifts and departed. Carmen left an hour ago, and the kitchen staff wrapped up their prep work for tomorrow’s meals, but Danielle is still here, working alone in the formal dining room.

I find her polishing the mahogany table, moving in slow, careful circles. The afternoon light streaming through the windows catches the auburn highlights in her hair, and for a moment, I just watch her work.

“You’re staying late again.”

She doesn’t startle, but her hand stills on the table’s surface. “Mrs. Yranda asked me to finish the dining room before I left. There’s a conference call scheduled here tomorrow morning.”

“Andrei could have handled that.”

“I don’t mind.” She returns to her polishing, avoiding my eyes. “I need the extra hours.”

“Do you?”

The question makes her pause. “Of course. I have expenses, and?—”

“Yet you turned down overtime work last week.”

She sets down the polishing cloth and faces me directly. “What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m asking why someone who desperately needs money would suddenly start declining extra shifts?”

She looks at me through narrowed eyes. “Maybe I found other sources of income.”

“Maybe by selling information that should be confidential?”

The words hang between us. She understands what I’m suggesting. Her expression tightens as she unconsciously smooths her polo shirt. “I’m not suicidal or crazy. I wouldn’t do that. I have priorities and want to keep a job. I was just busy last week. I can’t always be at your beck and call, sir.” There’s tartness in the last word.

“There’s nothing else going on?” I ask with a hint of suspicion I can’t filter out.

“What else would there be?”

I step closer, and she doesn’t retreat. “You tell me.”

She looks almost at me, and her voice is cool, but she’s still nervous. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Isn’t there?” I study her face, noting the subtle signs of stress around her eyes and the careful way she’s holding herself. “You’ve been different lately. Distant. Like you’re carrying something heavy.”

She inhales sharply, but her expression remains neutral. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

She finally looks at me, holding my gaze for a long moment, and she’s obviously wrestling with something. “I need to finish this and go home,” she says finally, breaking eye contact.

“Of course.” I don’t move. “But, Danielle?”

“What?”

“Whatever you’re dealing with, whatever complications you mentioned, I’m happy to help if I can.”

Something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe, or longing, but she quickly masks it. “I appreciate that, but some things are better handled privately.”

“Even if they don’t have to be?”

She just shakes her head, not bothering to reply before picking up the polishing cloth and returning to her work, effectively dismissing me. Still, I don’t leave. Instead, I watch her.

“What are you so afraid of?” I ask quietly.

Her hand stills again. “I’m not afraid.”

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