She Was Left to Freeze on Christmas Night — What the Mafia Boss Did Next Shocked Everyone

The blizzard raging outside the Moretti estate was ferocious enough to claim a man’s life in minutes. Yet, the hearts of those residing within were somehow colder still.

While the city’s upper crust sipped vintage Dom Pérignon and laughed by the roaring mahogany fireplaces, a young maid named Clara was clawing desperately at the frozen glass of the patio doors. She silently screamed to be let back inside.

She had been cast out into the whiteout as a cruel, twisted punishment, clad in nothing but her paper-thin uniform. No one cared. No one even glanced her way until Tony Moretti, the most dangerous man in the underworld, walked to the window to observe the snowfall.

He noticed a shape being buried by the drift. What followed wasn’t merely a rescue mission. It was a reckoning that would burn the entire mansion to the ground.

The thermometer mounted on the wall of the servants’ quarters read a comfortable 68 degrees. However, upstairs in the grand ballroom of the Moretti estate in Aspen, Colorado, the atmosphere was stiflingly hot. It was Christmas Eve, arguably the most critical night on the social calendar for the East Coast crime families.

Clara Thorne adjusted the white lace collar of her uniform, her fingers trembling uncontrollably. It wasn’t from the cold—not yet—but from pure, unadulterated fear. She had been working at the Moretti estate for only three months, taking the position solely to chip away at her father’s gambling debts owed to a vicious loan shark back in Chicago.

She tried to be invisible. She tried to be a ghost. But when you worked for Tony Moretti, the capo dei capi, and his venomous fiancée, Lana Vance, invisibility was a luxury you simply couldn’t afford.

Lana Vance was a woman sculpted from jealousy and old money. She possessed a diamond-like beauty—sharp, hard, and capable of cutting you if you held it the wrong way. She loathed Clara.

Not because Clara had committed any transgression, but because three weeks ago, Tony had casually complimented Clara’s coffee. That single, fleeting moment of kindness from the «Ice King» himself had painted a massive target on Clara’s back.

«You there. Go.»

Clara froze, balancing a heavy silver tray loaded with crystal flutes of Château Margaux. She turned to see Lana standing by the massive French doors that led out to the terrace. Lana was draped in a crimson Valentino gown that likely cost more than Clara would earn in a decade. Her eyes, however, were purely predatory.

«Yes, Miss Vance?» Clara whispered, instinctively lowering her head.

«I seem to have dropped my earring,» Lana announced. She pitched her voice loud enough to attract the attention of her sycophantic friends, but quiet enough to escape the notice of the men discussing business in the corner. «My diamond stud. The one Tony gave me for our engagement.»

Clara immediately scanned the polished marble floor. «I can help you look for it here, Miss.»

«Oh, I didn’t drop it here, you stupid girl,» Lana sneered, taking a languid sip of her wine. «I was getting some fresh air. I dropped it on the terrace.»

Clara looked at the glass doors. Beyond them, a white void swirled violently. The weatherman had dubbed it the storm of the century. The wind was howling at fifty miles per hour, and the mercury had plummeted to ten degrees below zero.

«Miss Vance,» Clara stammered, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the tray. «It’s… it’s a blizzard out there.»

«Perhaps we can wait until the storm passes, or I can ask the groundskeeper to—»

Lana stepped forward, her hand lashing out with viper-like speed. She didn’t hit Clara. Instead, she slapped the bottom of the silver tray.

Crash!

The crystal flutes shattered against the marble. Red wine splattered across the hem of Lana’s pristine gown and soaked into Clara’s apron. The cacophony instantly silenced the nearby conversations.

«Look what you’ve done!» Lana shrieked, instantly pivoting to play the victim. «You clumsy idiot! You’ve ruined my dress!»

Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper—a woman who had long ago sold her soul to stay on Lana’s good side—rushed over. «Clara! My God, what is wrong with you?»

«I— She hit the tray,» Clara gasped, tears pricking her eyes.

«Liar!» Lana hissed.

She leaned in close, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper meant only for Clara. «You are going to go out there, and you are going to find my earring. If you don’t, I will tell Tony you stole it. And you know what the Morettis do to thieves, don’t you? They don’t just fire them. They make them disappear.»

The threat hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Clara knew the stories. She knew about the rumors of people vanishing without a trace. She looked at Mrs. Gable for help, but the older woman just sneered.

«Go on then,» Mrs. Gable barked. «And don’t come back in until you have it.»

Mrs. Gable unlocked the heavy French door. The wind slammed it open, blasting snow into the warm room. The guests nearby laughed, assuming it was some sort of drunken game.

«Go,» Lana commanded.

Trembling, Clara stepped out. She wasn’t wearing a coat. She wasn’t wearing boots—just her thin, standard-issue black flats and her cotton uniform. As soon as she crossed the threshold, the cold hit her like a physical blow. It sucked the air straight from her lungs.

Before she could turn back to beg for a coat, the door slammed shut behind her.

Click.

The lock engaged.

Clara turned, pounding on the glass. «Please! Just let me get a coat! Please!»

Inside, Lana turned her back to the window, laughing as she signaled a waiter for another drink. Mrs. Gable pulled the heavy velvet drapes shut, blocking out the view of the storm. Blocking out Clara.

Clara was alone in the whiteout.

She wrapped her arms around herself, her teeth chattering instantly. «Okay,» she sobbed to herself. «Okay. Just find the earring. Five minutes. Just find it.»

She dropped to her knees in the snow. It was already a foot deep. She began to sift through the freezing powder, her fingers going numb within seconds. She crawled across the patio stones, feeling for the hard edge of a diamond.

One minute passed. Then five. Then ten.

The cold wasn’t just on her skin anymore; it was in her blood. Her movements became sluggish. Her vision began to blur. She crawled toward the door again, banging on the glass, but her hands were so frozen they felt like blocks of wood. She couldn’t even feel the impact.

She screamed, but the wind tore the sound from her throat and scattered it into the night.

«They aren’t going to open the door,» she realized with a terrifying clarity. «Lana doesn’t want the earring. She wants me gone.»

Clara slumped against the stone railing of the terrace, the snow piling up around her legs. Her eyelids felt heavy. The biting cold was replaced by a strange, seductive warmth. It was the final stage of hypothermia.

She curled into a ball, her head resting on her knees, looking like nothing more than a discarded pile of laundry in the snow.

Inside the mansion, the party raged on. The scent of roasted duck and pine needles filled the air, but in the private study on the second floor, Tony Moretti was getting restless.

Tony Enzo Moretti was not a man who enjoyed parties. He tolerated them. As the Don of the Moretti crime family, appearances were a necessary evil. He had to show strength, wealth, and unity, especially with the rumors of the Russo family trying to encroach on his territory in New York.