The Game of Claiming

LILA

The envelope lay on my kitchen table like it was mocking me.

Final notice. Again.

I read the words twice, like maybe they’d change if I squinted hard enough. They didn’t. My bank account balance was so low I was half convinced the bank would start charging me rent for taking up space in their system. Rent for my apartment was due in two days. My mom’s medication refill was due in three. The fridge had exactly one carton of milk that had expired yesterday, and some lettuce that looked like it had already written its will.

Selling a kidney was starting to sound like a viable plan.

So when Tracy called, her voice buzzing through my cheap phone like she’d just found the last golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s factory, I didn’t even wait for her to finish before saying yes.

“A maid job,” she said. “Pays triple what you’re making now. And you’d live in.”

“That sounds… suspicious,” I said, because I had learned that anything too good to be true usually came with a price tag you couldn’t pay with money. “What’s the catch?”

She hesitated, and in that tiny pause, I felt the prickle of trouble.

“Well… it’s for the Romano family.”

I sat back in my chair. I didn’t know much about them, but I knew enough to feel a little shiver run up my spine. People in this city said their name the way you’d talk about an animal you didn’t want to startle—carefully. A family that owned half the clubs, restaurants, and casinos in town, plus a few things they didn’t put on paper.

“They’re… what, rich?” I asked, because pretending I didn’t know felt safer.

“Rich,” Tracy said. “And powerful. And maybe dangerous. But I’ve heard they treat staff well, and honestly, Lila—triple pay. You need this.”

She wasn’t wrong. I stared at the bill on the table. “When do I start?”

The car came to pick me up the next morning—a sleek black town car with windows so tinted they might as well have been painted on. The driver was polite, but in that professional way that meant he wasn’t going to tell me anything even if I asked.

We pulled out of my crumbling apartment block and headed toward the nicer part of the city, then past it. The streets grew quieter, the houses bigger. Twice, we slowed at gates with security checkpoints—actual gates with suited men carrying earpieces and the kind of posture that said they weren’t afraid to use whatever was in the holster under their jackets.

At the first checkpoint, a guard leaned down to peer into the car. His gaze slid over me like he was scanning a barcode, then he nodded to the driver and waved us through.

The second checkpoint had cameras. I counted at least four pointed directly at the car as we passed.

We drove another ten minutes before turning down a long, tree-lined driveway. The road curved, revealing a glimpse of pale stone between the branches. My breath caught.

The mansion wasn’t just big—it was designed to make you feel small. White stone walls, towering windows, balconies with curling iron railings. Ivy crept artfully up the sides, like even the plants knew better than to look messy here.

We stopped at the front steps, and I stepped out, gripping my small suitcase like a shield. Two men in suits stood by the massive double doors. They didn’t say a word as we approached, but their eyes tracked my every move.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of polished wood and something floral. The floor gleamed like it had been buffed an hour ago.

A tall man waited in the entryway, dressed in a black suit so sharp it could’ve cut glass. His hair was dark, his jaw clean-shaven, his expression unreadable.

“Miss Moreno?” he said.

“Yes.”

“I’m Dante Romano.”

Oh.

Up close, he was even more intimidating than I’d imagined. His eyes were a cool gray that didn’t linger—they scanned. Like he was cataloging every detail about me in real time, from the scuff on my shoes to the way I was gripping my suitcase.

“You’ve come recommended,” he said. “That remains to be seen.”

I swallowed. “I work hard.”

“We’ll see.” He gestured for me to follow him down a wide hallway lined with paintings in heavy gold frames. “You’ll keep the east wing in order. There are rules—don’t enter private rooms without permission, keep out of restricted areas, and you will address my brothers with respect.”

“Your brothers?” I asked.

His mouth twitched, almost like a smile, but it didn’t quite get there. “Marco, Luca, and Enzo. You’ll meet them soon enough.”

We passed a closed door where faint music drifted out—smooth jazz, just loud enough to be heard. A man’s voice laughed, warm and rich, before the sound faded as we moved on.

“That’s Marco,” Dante said, not breaking stride.

A moment later, we passed a side hall where a tall figure in a dark shirt leaned against the wall. His hair was a little messy, his expression sharp and amused. He gave me a slow, assessing look before Dante’s voice cut through.

“Luca. Don’t start.”

Luca smirked but said nothing, disappearing around the corner.

My new room was small but clean, tucked near the staff quarters. A uniform hung in the closet—a neat black dress with a crisp white apron.

“Dinner is at eight,” Dante said from the doorway. “You’ll serve in the main dining room. Don’t be late.”

He left without another word, his footsteps fading down the hall.

I sank onto the bed, exhaling. I’d been here less than an hour and already felt like I’d stepped into a world where every movement was being watched.

Somewhere above me, faint but distinct, came the sound of footsteps crossing a floor, then pausing. I glanced at the ceiling. The steps stayed there for a moment, like whoever it was had stopped directly above my room, before moving away.

It could’ve been another maid. Or it could’ve been one of them.

Still… triple pay. I could do this.

I just had to stay out of trouble.

Or so I thought.