Mila was not asked if she agreed.
She was told.
The contract lay open on the desk between them, its pages heavy with language she barely understood but instinctively distrusted. Alessandro stood by the window, back to her, watching the city as if she were an afterthought—something already decided.
"You'll work for the house," Marco said, voice neutral. "Domestic staff."
Mila looked up sharply. "A maid?"
"Yes."
The word landed oddly—smaller than prison, larger than freedom.
She turned toward Alessandro. "Is this a joke?"
He didn't look at her.
"No," he said calmly. "It's efficient."
"That's it?" she pressed. "You drag me here over my father's debt and decide I'm… what, cleaning floors?"
"If you're hoping for drama," Alessandro replied, finally turning, "you'll be disappointed."
His indifference hit harder than any threat.
Mila clenched her fists. "I won't do it."
Alessandro shrugged, a minimal movement. "Then you won't stay."
"And if I leave?"
He met her gaze then—cold, assessing, bored.
"Then you become someone else's problem," he said. "Briefly."
Silence swallowed the room.
Mila looked back at the papers. No chains. No cages. Just a role that erased her piece by piece.
"You don't even care," she said quietly.
"No," Alessandro replied honestly. "I don't."
That was the worst part.
The uniform arrived an hour later.
Black dress. White apron. Plain, functional. It stripped her of everything that made her feel like herself. When she changed, she avoided the mirror.
Sofia, the head housekeeper, wasted no time.
"Follow," she said. "You'll learn by doing."
Mila scrubbed marble, dusted railings, carried trays heavier than her thoughts. No one spoke to her unless necessary. She was corrected without cruelty, dismissed without notice.
Below the stairs, the DeLuca estate was all rules and rhythm. No opinions. No questions.
By late afternoon, her arms burned and her head throbbed. She was refilling glasses in the main hall when Alessandro passed through.
He didn't slow.
Didn't glance at her.
Didn't acknowledge that the girl he'd summoned the night before now stood silently in uniform, eyes lowered, holding a silver tray.
To him, she was simply part of the house now—like the walls, the floors, the shadows.
And that terrified her more than being watched ever could.
That night, in the narrow staff room assigned to her, Mila sat on the bed and stared at her hands.
She'd wanted to refuse. She had refused—until refusal became pointless.
Being a maid wasn't the worst fate she'd imagined.
But it was the first step toward being forgotten.
And somewhere upstairs, Alessandro DeLuca slept easily—
because the Devil of Ravello didn't care how debts were paid,
only that they were.