From Their Maid to Their Obsession
Description
Gianna Rossi spent two years scrubbing floors for the Moretti brothers-three mafia bosses who looked through her like she was invisible. Then her parents sold her at auction to pay her father's gambling debts. The men who bought her? The same brothers she served. Now Gianna is no longer a maid. She's something else entirely-a prize caught between Luca, the ice-cold eldest who runs an empire without flinching; Matteo, the charming middle brother whose smile promises sin and ruin; and Santo, the brooding youngest whose gentleness might be the most dangerous thing of all. They give her one rule: choose. One brother. One bed. One future. But as Gianna navigates their world of blood, loyalty, and burning desire, she discovers that choosing might cost her more than submission ever could. Because the Moretti brothers don't share. And Gianna is done being owned.
Chapter 1
Dec 24, 2025
I sit cross-legged on my childhood bed, back against the headboard, watching my best friend Nico fidget like he's waiting for a firing squad.
My room still has the same lavender walls from when I was fourteen, the same faded poster of some boy band I don't even remember liking. The corner is peeling where humidity got to it years ago, I never bothered to fix it.
Nico’s been my shadow since we were six—same scraped knees, same secrets, same sticky summer afternoons splitting popsicles on my front porch.
He knows my middle name, my fear of thunderstorms, the exact way I take my coffee. Tonight his hands shake as he pushes his glasses up for the hundredth time, and I already know what's coming before he opens his mouth.
I've known for weeks, maybe months.
From the way he lingers too long at goodbyes. The way he watches me when he thinks I'm not looking. The way his voice goes soft and strange when he says my name.
"Gigi..." He clears his throat, and his voice cracks like we're back in middle school. "I-I've always... you know I..."
The pause stretches painfully, filled only by the hum of the old radiator and the distant sound of a car passing on the street below. I want to help him, to finish the sentence myself just to end the agony, but I don't.
Some cruel part of me needs to see if he can get through it on his own.
"I love you." The words tumble out in a rush, like he's ripping off a bandage. "Like, love love you. Will you... be my girlfriend?"
The confession hangs there between us, small and trembling, and I feel nothing but a wave of secondhand embarrassment mixed with something close to disappointment.
I wanted to feel something. A flutter. A spark. Anything that would tell me this was right, that Nico was the answer to some question I'd been asking my whole life.
Instead there's just Nico, sweet and familiar and utterly uninspiring. The same boy who used to eat paste in kindergarten, now asking me to be his girlfriend with all the confidence of a kicked puppy.
"Nico," I say, arranging my face into the gentle smile I've perfected for moments exactly like this, "you're my best friend. I don't want to lose that."
I mean it. Mostly.
Jesus Christ, that was the weakest confession in my life. No lead-up, no courage, just wet puppy eyes and shaking hands.
Why are all the men I know made of wet tissue?
I hate myself a little for thinking like that, but I can't help it.
Nico nods, crushed but trying desperately not to show it, jaw tight like he's physically holding back tears.
"Yeah, no, I get it. That's... yeah. Friends. Cool." He stands abruptly, nearly knocking over my desk chair. "I should go. It's late. Night, Gigi."
"Night," I echo softly, and I listen to his footsteps fade down the stairs.
The front door clicking shut behind him with a sound like finality.
I flop back against my pillows and stare at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster I've memorized since childhood. Somewhere out there, I think, there have to be men who don't tremble when they ask for what they want.
Men with spines. Men who take instead of beg. Men who would look me in the eye and say ‘I want you’ like it was a fact, not a question.
"Gianna." My mother's voice cuts through the silence from downstairs. Too calm. Controlled in that way that means something terrible is coming. "Come here. We need to talk."
I find her at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee that's long gone cold. The kitchen light is harsh, unflattering, buzzing faintly like it always does—we've been meaning to replace that bulb for three years now.
My father is nowhere to be seen. Probably at the restaurant, or the bar, or wherever he disappears to when reality gets too heavy.
But Mama doesn't cry about that. I've never once seen my mother cry. Not when Nonna died, not when I broke my arm falling off the neighbor's fence, not ever.
She just sits there, spine rigid, spreading wrinkled papers across the table like autopsy photos.
"What is all this?" I lower myself into the chair across from her, scanning the documents.
Bank statements swimming in red ink. Collection notices with threatening letterhead. A letter from a lawyer that makes my stomach drop straight through the floor.
"The pizzeria is bankrupt." Her voice is flat, clinical, like she's reading a grocery list. "Three generations of Rossi bread and sauce, and your father gambled it all away."
"What do you mean… gambled it?"
"His bookie is circling." There's something in her tone that turns my blood to ice. "Not a metaphor, Gianna. Actually circling. The kind of men who break things that don't grow back."
I stare at her, trying to process.
The pizzeria. Our family legacy.
The place where I learned to roll dough, where my grandmother taught me her secret sauce recipe, where three generations of Rossis built something real. Gone.
"How much does he owe?"
"More than we'll ever have. We have sixty days until we lose everything. The restaurant. The house…" She pauses, and her eyes finally meet mine. They're empty. Hollow. "Maybe more. Maybe bones."
My heart races, panic clawing up my throat like a living thing.
"We can’t lose it… I can help, I'll do anything," I say, and I mean it with every fiber of my being. "Tell me how we can fix it. I'll get another job. Two jobs. Three. I'll drop out of—"
"You will,” she cuts me off. “That’s the point."
The words stop me cold. Not the agreement, but… the way she says it. Like it's already been decided. Like some deal has already been struck and I'm just now being informed of my role in it.
I laugh once, sharp and disbelieving. "What's that supposed to mean? What are you saying?"
But Mama doesn't answer. She just stands, pushes back her chair with a scrape that echoes through the silent kitchen, and walks away without another word. Her bedroom door closes and I hear the lock clicks.
I sit there for a long time, staring at the numbers that spell out my family's destruction, trying to make them mean something different. They don't.
Eventually I climb the stairs to my room. I change into my pajamas. I brush my teeth. I go through all the motions of a normal night because what else is there to do?
Whatever Mama has planned, whatever price has been set, I'll handle it. I'm strong. I'm a Rossi.
I go to bed smiling because daughters are supposed to save their families, right? That's what good daughters do. They sacrifice. They endure.
The smile stays frozen on my face long after the tears start falling.
From Their Maid to Their Obsession
30 Chapters
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