The Paralyzed Mafia Boss Was Invisible To His Fiancée—But The Maid Treated Him Like A King Spotlight8

Vincent leaned forward in his chair, resting his forearms on the table. The weakness vanished, replaced by a cold, terrifying authority.

He looked at Dominic.

“Pour the drink, Arya.”

His voice was quiet. Absolute.

Arya’s hand trembled as she reached for the decanter. She poured the bourbon with unsteady hands, the amber liquid sloshing against the crystal.

Vincent held her gaze the entire time. He didn’t blink.

“And then pack your bags. You’re moving out tonight.”

The room went still. Arya’s face drained of color, then flushed crimson.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.”

“Vincent—” Dominic started.

“Shut your mouth.” Vincent didn’t look at him. “You’re not my underboss anymore. You’re a guest in my house. And you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

Arya didn’t leave quietly.

The house echoed with the sound of slamming drawers and shattering perfume bottles. In the dining room, the men filed out fast—they didn’t run, because made men don’t run, but their exit was a hasty, synchronized retreat.

Dominic was the last to leave. He paused at the door, trying to salvage the sudden collapse of his coup.

“Glad to see you out of bed, boss.” He offered a tight, plastic smile. “We were just keeping the seat warm. Keeping the engine running.”

Vincent didn’t look at him. He stared at the amber liquid in his glass.

“The engine is mine, Dom. If I catch you behind the wheel again, I’ll break your hands. Now get out of my house.”

Dominic’s jaw clenched. A fleeting look of pure malice crossed his features before he nodded and slipped out into the rain.

An hour later, the front door stood open. Two of the estate security guards were hauling Arya’s matched Louis Vuitton luggage out to a waiting town car.

Vincent sat at the head of the dining table. The spilled water was gone. The broken glass was swept away. The only proof of his moment of weakness was the damp chill seeping into his trousers—a sensation he could only feel at the very top of his thighs, where the nerve damage frayed into healthy tissue.

High heels clicked violently against the marble floor of the foyer. Arya stormed into the dining room, a trench coat pulled tight around her waist. Her face was flushed, her perfect makeup marred by furious, genuine tears.

It was the most real emotion he had seen from her in six months.

“You’re making a mistake.” Her voice trembled with rage. “You think you can just throw me out after everything I’ve sacrificed for you?”

“Sacrificed?” Vincent turned his wheelchair slightly to face her. “You drank my wine, spent my money, and auditioned my underboss for my job while I lay in a bed upstairs. The only thing you sacrificed was your dignity.”

Arya sneered, crossing her arms. She looked down at his legs—a cruel, practiced weapon.

“You need me. Look at you, Vincent. You’re half a man. You think Dominic respects you? You think any of them do? They’re laughing at you. Without me playing the loyal wife to smooth things over, they’ll eat you alive.”

“Let them try,” Vincent said smoothly.

“You’re pathetic.” She hissed, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. She looked past him, her eyes landing on Tessa, who stood quietly near the credenza.

“And you? You think you’re special because you wiped up his mess. You’re a maid. When he finally chokes on his own spit, you’ll be out on the street with nothing.”

Tessa didn’t blink. She didn’t shrink under the wealthy woman’s glare. She picked up a dry microfiber cloth and began to polish the mahogany table where the water had spilled.

“Drive safe, Miss Harrington,” Tessa said flatly. “The roads are slick.”

Arya let out a breathless scoff of disbelief. She spun on her heel and marched out of the house. The heavy oak front door slammed shut with a finality that rattled the crystal in the chandelier.

Silence reclaimed the room. The grand, echoing quiet of a tomb.

But for the first time in a year, Vincent didn’t feel like a corpse.

He looked over at Tessa. She was still wiping the table, her movements methodical and calm.

“You just made a powerful enemy,” Vincent noted. His voice was a low rumble in the quiet room. “Arya comes from money. Her father has judges in his pocket.”

“I clean toilets for a living, Mr. Corvino.” Tessa didn’t look up. “I’m not afraid of a woman whose biggest hardship is a chipped manicure.”

Vincent exhaled slowly. It was the closest thing to a laugh he’d produced since the bullet hit him.

He reached for the glass of bourbon Arya had poured before she was banished. He picked it up. His hand was steady now—the tremor of exhaustion and adrenaline had passed. He took a slow sip, the alcohol burning a clean path down his throat.

“We need to change the locks,” Vincent said.

“Already told the guards,” Tessa said, throwing the cloth over her shoulder. “They’re bringing a locksmith at eight.”

He studied her. The dark blue scrubs. The tired eyes. The absolute lack of pretense.

“You stepped out of your lane tonight, Tessa. You embarrassed my underboss. You ordered my fiancée out of the house.”

Tessa finally looked at him.