THE MAFIA KING AND HIS LITTLE MAID

Chapter 7

ALLY

The scent of cedarwood and leather filled Dante's closet, blending with the clean linen I was folding into perfect squares. His suits hung in strict order—grays, blacks, dark navies—all pressed and commanding like the man himself. I tried not to glance at the mirror too often, but my face still looked a little pale. At least I was upright again. Breathing easier.

I was halfway through organizing his ties when I heard the soft click of the door behind me. My breath hitched.

He never comes in at this hour.

I turned around slowly, heart stuttering in my chest.

Dante stood there, coat draped over his arm, jacket unbuttoned. His eyes scanned the room like he hadn't meant to linger—but there was a softness in his gaze that said otherwise.

"Didn't mean to interrupt," he said simply, voice low.

"You're not," I replied, trying not to look as startled as I felt. "Just doing some organizing."

His eyes flicked to the shelf beside me, then slowly returned to mine. "You took La Casa sul Mare from my shelf."

Oh.

I swallowed, caught but not guilty. "It was... sitting out. I didn't think you'd miss it."

"I didn't." He stepped a little closer, not enough to crowd the space, just enough to make the air change. "What did you think of it?"

I blinked, then smiled before I could stop myself. "I liked it. It felt... haunting. The idea that people can live in a house full of windows and still see nothing at all. That line stayed with me."

A pause.

Dante's gaze held mine. "You understood it better than most."

Was that admiration in his voice?

I looked down at the tie in my hand. "I like the way it told the story without rushing. Even the silence between the lines felt like part of the plot."

"Silence can speak loudest," he said quietly.

I looked up. For a moment, we didn't say anything. Just existed in that space, between pressed shirts and carefully folded ties, where things unsaid buzzed in the air like electricity.

Then he cleared his throat, shifting slightly. "I'm leaving tonight. Italy. Business."

I nodded slowly. "How long?" Why did I ask?

"Two weeks. Maybe less." He actually answered me.

I tried not to show anything on my face, just focused on smoothing a wrinkle from his tie.

Then his voice softened—barely. "Is there any book you've been meaning to read? Something Italian, maybe?"

I blinked at him, startled again. "You'd bring me a book?"

"I'd consider it," he replied, a hint of a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. "If you don't make it something impossible to find."

I smiled before I could stop myself. "Alright. Surprise me, then."

He gave a slight nod, the smirk fading into something unreadable. "I'll keep that in mind."

And just like that, he turned and left, his scent lingering like a bookmark in the air.

And me? I stood there, one hand still resting on his folded tie, heart racing like I'd just walked out of a story I never meant to enter.

.....

The house always had a rhythm. A quiet hum beneath the walls, a heartbeat of routine and footsteps and whispers of orders. But today, it felt like something had been turned down. Not off—just... softened. As if the mansion itself was holding its breath.

Dante was gone.

He left just an hour ago. Coat sharp across his shoulders, words clipped but not unkind. I hadn't expected him to talk to me again—not really. But he did. In his room, just before he left, something in his voice had lingered longer than usual. Not stern. Not commanding. Curious. Maybe even fond?

I smiled faintly, wrapping my arms around myself as I stood by the windows of the east hall, watching the drive stretch empty and quiet beyond the hedges.

He'd asked about the book. The one I took from his shelves like I had no business doing it. He didn't scold me. He asked what I thought. Let me speak. Listened.

Really listened.

And then... he asked if I wanted more. If there was an Italian book I had in mind. Said he could find it for me while he was away.

Who does that?

He hadn't smiled. Not fully. But something about the way his eyes softened when I spoke—that stayed with me.

I walked down the hall, running my fingers lightly across the polished surface of the banister. Everything was the same. Everything was different.

The kitchen bustled in a quiet sort of way. No sharp voices. No Marco pacing with a phone at his ear. The guards seemed less rigid. Even the chandelier light felt warmer, somehow.

I realized something as I stood there in the empty hall: I missed him.

Not his presence looming over the house. Not the weight of who he was or what he represented. Just... him. The man who listened. The man who noticed the titles of books I read, who asked questions with an edge of amusement and a flicker of something I couldn't name.

For two years, he was just the man who held my fate in his hands.

Now? He felt like something more.

I headed back toward the library. There were pages left unfinished, lines still waiting to unfold. I'd sit by the window. Read. Maybe even pretend I wasn't listening for the sound of his footsteps down the hall.

Because I was.

And it terrified me how much I'd grown used to them.