The Mafia's Prince Maid
Description
To avenge her parents' murder, twenty-year-old Sophie infiltrates the home of Alessandro De Luca-heir to the ruthless New York crime family she believes destroyed hers-by posing as his personal maid. Living under his roof while attending the same university, she must play the perfect submissive servant, following his three unbreakable rules and sexual tension building between them, all while searching for proof of his family's crimes. But Alessandro watches her with eyes that miss nothing, and the closer she gets to the truth that will destroy him, the harder it becomes to remember which side of hatred and hunger she's supposed to be on.
Chapter 1
Dec 23, 2025
[Sofia’s POV]
I stand on the sidewalk clutching my forged references, and my hands are sweating so badly I'm worried the ink might start running. Wouldn't that be perfect?
Hi, I'm here for the personal maid position, please ignore how my employment history is literally melting.
The De Luca brownstone looks exactly like every other brownstone on this tree-lined street near Columbia University—which is to say, it looks like someone liquidated a small country's GDP and poured it into brick and mortar.
The door opens before I can knock. A woman in her sixties with steel-gray hair and the posture of someone who's seen some shit but refuses to be impressed by any of it studies me with sharp black eyes.
"Sofia Russo?"
"Yes, ma'am." I dip my head, let my shoulders curve inward.
Smaller. Harmless. Just a poor scholarship girl who desperately needs this job.
"Mrs. Bianchi. Come." She turns without waiting to see if I'll follow, which—rude, but also fair.
Where exactly am I going to go?
I trail after her into a foyer that smells like expensive cologne and the kind of old money that doesn't need to announce itself. It just is. Soaked into the Persian rugs and the artwork that's probably worth more than my entire identity right now.
I keep my eyes lowered as I should, while I'm cataloging everything.
Exit to the left—kitchen, maybe? Staircase straight ahead. Security camera in the corner, another by the door.
My gaze catches on a closed door down the hall—heavy wood, the kind that says important shit happens here—and lingers just a fraction too long before I force myself to look away.
"The family values discretion," Mrs. Bianchi says, leading me through a living room that could fit my entire apartment three times over. "You see nothing. You hear nothing. You speak only when spoken to. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Our younger mistress Chiara is in the sitting room. You'll meet her first."
Oh good. The sister.
I've seen exactly one surveillance photo of Chiara De Luca, and in it she looked like the kind of girl who'd key your car for parking too close to hers. In person, she's worse.
She's draped across a velvet settee like a Renaissance painting come to life. All nineteen years old and drowning in Chanel, dark hair falls in perfect waves, skin is flawless.
And when she looks up at me, her expression makes it immediately clear that I rank somewhere between gum on her shoe and a particularly offensive piece of furniture.
"This is the new girl?" Her voice could cut glass. "She looks... adequate, I suppose."
I keep my face blank, my posture submissive. Adequate. Sure.
I'll take ‘adequate’ over ‘target neutralized’ any day.
"Sofia will be serving as your brother's personal maid, Miss," Mrs. Bianchi says.
Chiara's perfectly shaped eyebrows rise.
"Alessandro's? How delicious." She studies me with the kind of look that makes my skin crawl. "Do try not to embarrass us, scholarship girl. Servants who cause problems don't last long here."
"I understand, Miss De Luca."
"Do you?" She smiles, and it doesn't reach her eyes. "And do something with that hair, it looks tragic—did you style it with a mop?"
Oh, of course. Did I really expect to walk out of here without some insult?
"I appreciate Miss De Luca's concern for my appearance.” I keep my eyes lowered when it should’ve been my temper apparently. “I'll make sure to meet the family's standards."
The words are perfectly polite. The tone is perfectly respectful.
But it’s the way I say it—some microscopic edge that could mean either genuine gratitude or the most subtle ‘fuck you’ ever delivered.
Chiara's eyes narrow. "What did you just—"
Her hand comes up fast, and I flinch instinctively.
"Chiara."
The slap doesn’t land. The voice comes from behind me, low and steady, and every muscle in my body locks up. I turn slowly, carefully, keeping that submissive curve to my spine.
And there he is.
Alessandro De Luca is nothing like his photos. In surveillance shots, he looked dangerous but distant—just another pretty mafia prince in expensive suits. In person, he's present in a way that makes the room feel smaller.
He's tall, built like he knows his way around a gym and a fight. Black hair looks perpetually two weeks past needing a cut and eyes that are some impossible shade between gray and green.
Those eyes lock onto me, and my pulse kicks up.
Strategic awareness. That's all this is.
I'm already cataloging details: the way he moves, the breadth of his shoulders, the tattoos I can just barely see peeking out from under his rolled shirtsleeves. The way he looks at me like I'm something he's considering buying.
“Consider yourself lucky, stray,” Chiara hisses behind me.
I don’t look back at her.
"Mister Alessandro, this is Sofia Russo." Mrs. Bianchi gestures at me like I'm a piece of furniture being delivered. "Your new personal maid."
"I see." He circles me slowly, and I force myself to stay still, to not track his movement like the threat he is. "I've seen you around campus. Business and literature double major, right? Impressive grades for someone working full-time."
My stomach drops. He's been watching me. Of course he has.
The De Lucas don't hire anyone without vetting them first.
"Yes, sir," I say softly. "I try my best."
"Mmm." He stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something dark and woodsy. "So tell me, Sofia. Why does a girl with your academic record need to scrub toilets for a living?"
This is it. The moment everything hinges on.
I let my voice shake just slightly, let my eyes go bright with the threat of tears.
"My family owes De Lucas money, sir. A debt my father couldn't pay before he died." I swallow hard, and I don't have to fake the way my throat closes up. "I'm working it off. To keep my younger siblings safe."
I keep my gaze down as I speak, my voice sounds perfectly desperate and grateful. But my fingers curl slightly at my sides—just for a second, something that slipped from my awareness—before I force them to relax.
Alessandro studies my face for a long moment. Then he reaches out, and two fingers tilt my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes.
His touch is warm. Firm. And the way he looks at me makes my breath catch in a way I absolutely hate. My body responds—pulse quickening, skin heating—even as my mind frantically catalogs every detail about him for later.
The small scar by his eyebrow. The exact shade of his eyes. The way his jaw tightens just slightly when I meet his gaze.
"You start tomorrow," he says finally. "You'll live in the staff quarters. Mrs. Bianchi will show you."
"Thank you, sir."
He doesn't let go of my chin. "One more thing."
I waited for what felt like an hour before he decided to speak again.
"My house. My rules." His voice drops lower, and there's something in it that makes my spine straighten involuntarily. "Rule number one: you go nowhere I don't know about. Clear?"
"Crystal clear, sir."
Finally, he released me with a short nod and stepped back. I follow Mrs. Bianchi down a hallway, toward what I assume are the servant's quarters, and I can feel his eyes on me the entire way.
"Sofia." His voice stops me at the end of the hall.
I turn back, meet his gaze with perfect, empty obedience. My expression should be a masterwork of submission—I've practiced it in the mirror a hundred times.
I'm just a desperate girl who needs this job to survive. See?
Alessandro smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Welcome to the family."
The Mafia's Prince Maid
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