THE MAFIA KING AND HIS LITTLE MAID

Chapter 6

ALLY

The kitchen always felt different after hours—emptier somehow, like the walls could finally exhale. The lights were dimmer, the noise gone, only the occasional creak of wood or hum of the fridge keeping me company.

I was finishing up the dishes I'd insisted on doing myself, even though technically, now that I was on paid staff, I didn't have to. I liked the rhythm. The silence. The control.

I also liked not having Gabriella's voice in my head. Which was hilarious, because I could still hear it perfectly.

"You look at him like he's the last page of a really good book..."

I sighed.

"No, I don't," I muttered to no one.

But my hands had slowed over the warm plate in the sink.

I didn't look at Dante that way. Not really. I looked at him like—

Like someone I couldn't figure out. Like a locked door that rattled a little when I walked past.

It wasn't my fault he was tall and unreadable and walked like he owned silence. Or that he had that voice. That careful, low voice that could make a grocery list sound like a riddle.

I rinsed the plate too hard, splashing water up my wrist. Cursed softly under my breath.

It wasn't a crush. I was too old for that word anyway. I'd dropped out of college, run a household, watched my father vanish under the weight of his own mistakes. I didn't have time for some moony-eyed fantasy about the man who signed my paychecks.

Still.

Still.

The way he'd looked at me today—even for a second. That flicker of something unspoken. A crack in his usual armor.

It did something to my chest. Something warm and stupid.

I dried my hands and leaned back against the counter, staring out at the dark window above the sink. My reflection stared back: tired, hair coming loose, eyes too full of thoughts I didn't want to name.

"I don't have a crush," I said quietly. "I just... notice things."

And maybe one of those things was how he noticed me back—then pretended he didn't.

....

The library had become my new safe haven. It was far from the kitchen, far from the noise, and—at least I thought—far from him.

Curled up in the velvet armchair near the tall window, I clutched a book I'd taken from Dante's room the day before. "The Crimson Echo." I hadn't heard of it before, but the worn spine and heavy cover had called to me. Something about forgotten books always felt like they held secrets. This one was no different.

My knees were tucked beneath me, a blanket draped over my legs, and the dim afternoon light streamed in as the rain outside quietly tapped the windows. The scent of old pages and leather-bound spines surrounded me. I let myself sink into it, reading slowly, lips moving silently as I followed the story.

It was about a soldier who deserted his post in a bloody war—not out of fear, but because he saw a child clinging to her dead mother in the ruins of a burning village. He carried her across enemy lines, risking death, exile, and disgrace. The story wasn't about battles; it was about guilt. Redemption. Humanity. It was heartbreaking and beautiful.

My eyes narrowed at a particular line:

"He had taken a single life to save another. And somehow, it would never be enough."

I sighed, my fingers brushing the edge of the page as I turned it gently. "It's always like that," I murmured under my breath. "You try to fix one thing and lose ten others in the process."

"You always talk to your books like that?"

I froze.

The voice didn't belong in the story. It didn't belong in the room.

I looked up sharply—and there he was. Dante Lombardi, standing halfway between the shelves. Hands in the pockets of his black slacks, sleeves rolled just enough to expose the ink on his forearm, and those sharp eyes... watching me.

"Jesus Christ," I muttered, heart racing. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to know you forgot where you are," he said smoothly, walking toward me.

I scrambled to sit straighter, pulling the blanket higher over my chest like it could shield me from his gaze.

"You weren't supposed to be here," I mumbled, suddenly embarrassed.

He didn't reply right away. Instead, he walked over to the chair across from me and sat down, not taking his eyes off me. "You stole that from my room," he said after a pause, gesturing toward the book.

"I borrowed it," I corrected defensively. "It looked like no one had opened it in years."

His mouth lifted slightly. "Most people wouldn't touch anything in my room."

"Most people don't like books as much as I do."

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "The Crimson Echo. That's not an easy read. Why that one?"

I hesitated, fingers tightening around the cover. "Because it's real," I said. "It's messy and sad, and the characters feel like people I could meet. The soldier... he didn't want to be a hero. He just didn't want to be a monster."

Dante tilted his head. "You think he was a monster?"

"I think he was both," I replied. "But that's the thing. People are rarely just one thing."

He was quiet again. His gaze was heavier now, like he wasn't just watching me—but seeing me.

"You're not what I expected," he said suddenly.

I blinked. "What did you expect?"

His voice was quiet, thoughtful. "A girl paying off her father's debt. Head down. Silent. Careful."

"Well," I said, hugging the book closer, "I do read silently. That's something."

He chuckled. Actually chuckled. A small sound, like even he wasn't used to it.

We fell into silence for a moment, the only sound the soft rain against the glass.

"Can I finish it?" I asked, breaking the quiet. "The book, I mean."

His eyes stayed on me for a moment longer. "You can keep it."

I blinked again. "Seriously?"

"I never finished it," he said, standing slowly. "Maybe you can tell me how it ends."

And with that, he turned and left me in the silence again. Only now, the air didn't feel quite so safe... or quite so lonely.