Chapter 2 - The Don's EyesOlivia scrambled to her feet, clutching the leather-bound sketchbook tightly against her uniform apron, her face burning hot.
"I'm—I'm so sorry, Mr. DeMarco," Olivia stammered, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. "I dropped the inventory folder... the papers fell... I didn't mean to pry into your personal items."
Lorenzo didn't step back. He entered the study, closing the heavy oak door behind him with a quiet, deliberate click that echoed through the vast room.
He walked slowly toward her. Lorenzo was a broad, formidable man—standing six-foot-two, with a sharp jawline, silver-flecked dark hair, and an undeniable aura of dangerous authority. When he entered a room, men stopped talking and women straightened their posture.
Yet, as he approached Olivia, his heavy steps slowed.
"You don't need to apologize to me, Olivia," Lorenzo said quietly, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that sent a warm shiver down her spine. "You have total authority in this house."
He stopped two feet away from her. His pale brown eyes—eyes that had stared down cartel bosses, corrupt politicians, and hostile corporate raiders—drifted down to the sketchbook pressed against her chest.
"You recognized it," Lorenzo stated flatly. It wasn't a question.
Olivia swallowed hard, her knuckles white as she gripped the leather cover. "Where... where did you get this, sir?"
"My investigators pulled it from Arthur Sinclair’s private safe in Geneva two weeks ago," Lorenzo revealed, stepping around his desk and leaning against the mahogany edge. He crossed his arms, his sharp gaze never leaving her face. "For three months, you’ve worked in my home, Olivia. You sweep my floors, you organize my life, you treat my staff with a grace this house hasn't seen since my mother passed."
He leaned in slightly closer.
"And all the while, you never mentioned that the entire Sinclair fortune—the very empire Vanessa boasts about at my dinner table—was built on stolen sketches carrying your name."
Olivia felt tears sting the back of her eyes. She turned her head away, looking down at the antique rug, unable to meet his intense gaze.
"It doesn't matter anymore, Mr. DeMarco," Olivia whispered, her voice cracking with fifteen years of buried pain. "It’s been fifteen years. I have no proof that holds up in a court of law. The Sinclairs have teams of lawyers, public relations firms, and millions of dollars. I am a plus-size, thirty-four-year-old housekeeper with a ruined reputation and no degree. Who would believe me?"
Lorenzo stepped into her space. He reached out, his thick, calloused fingers gently touching the side of her chin, tipping her face up until her dark brown eyes met his.
His touch was surprisingly warm, soft, and unbelievably gentle for a man known as a ruthless mafia don.
"I believe you," Lorenzo said softly. His eyes held a fierce, unwavering light that made her heart skip a beat. "I’ve known Arthur Sinclair was a fraud for five years. But until I found this sketchbook, I didn't know who he had destroyed to build his kingdom."
"Why does it matter to you?" Olivia gasped out, overwhelmed by his sudden proximity. "I’m just your employee, Lorenzo."
It was the first time she had ever spoken his first name aloud without "Mr. DeMarco" attached to it.
Lorenzo’s eyes darkened with a sudden, powerful emotion. His hand slid down from her chin to gently rest against the side of her neck, his thumb tracing her jawline.
"You are the most genuine, brilliant, and beautiful woman who has ever walked through these doors, Olivia," Lorenzo murmured, his voice rich and low. "While Vanessa Sinclair spends her life wearing silver gowns and pretending to have grace, you carry this estate on your shoulders with true dignity. Do you really think I don't notice you?"
Olivia stood frozen, her breath hitching in her chest. She looked at him—this powerful, terrifying, breathtaking man—and saw no mockery in his face. She saw only absolute sincerity and a deep, protective reverence that made her feel seen for the first time in her life.
"Lorenzo..." she breathed.
"Tonight is the annual DeMarco Foundation Gala," Lorenzo said, his thumb brushing away a single tear that had escaped down her cheek. "Vanessa believes she is going to announce our corporate merger and engagement tonight before three hundred reporters."
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A cold smirk touched the corners of Lorenzo’s handsome lips.
"She has no idea that tonight is the night I bring the Sinclair family to their knees," Lorenzo whispered. "And you, my dear Olivia... are going to sit at the head table beside me."
