The Thorne estate had its own state-of-the-art medical wing buried beneath the wine cellar. Dr. Aris, a surgeon whose license had been revoked for treating gunshot wounds without asking questions, was already waiting.

Dante laid Mia on the sterile white bed. As Aris hooked up an IV and a stronger oxygen mask, Mia’s little hand flailed out, grasping blindly.

"Papa?" she rasped through the mask.

"I'm here, bird," Dante said, taking her hand.

But Mia whimpered, pulling away weakly. "La-la."

Dante froze. He was the king of the city's underworld. Men kissed his ring. But in this sterile room, his daughter didn't want his power. She wanted the bruised, overweight maid standing awkwardly by the door.

Dante turned to Clara. "Come here."

Clara hesitated, painfully aware of her torn, dirty uniform in the pristine room. But the desperate sound of Mia’s breathing moved her feet. She rushed to the bedside, wrapping her large, warm hands around Mia’s tiny one.

"I'm here, sweet girl," Clara whispered, brushing the damp curls from Mia’s forehead. "La-la’s right here. You’re safe."

Instantly, Mia’s heart rate on the monitor began to slow. The panic left the child's eyes. Dante stood back, watching the woman who had bled for his child. For the first time in his life, Dante Thorne saw true royalty, and she was wearing a maid's apron.