Operation:Breakfast Peace Offering
1773 Words
[Nico's POV]
The sun rose without asking me if I was ready.
Its light bled through the velvet curtains, gilding the room in soft gold, like a cruel joke—shining so warmly on a space that still felt like ice inside.
I lay still, stiff from a night of unslept terror. The attack replayed behind my eyelids like a movie I never bought a ticket for.
A knife.
A maid.
Blood.
Dante.
I sat up slowly, breath shallow, fingers brushing the cold metal wrapped around my finger.
Still there. Still foreign. Still heavy.
Just like everything else.
But this time, I wasn’t going to stay in bed trembling. No more hiding behind velvet and silence.
“I’m going to prove it today,” I whispered to the room, to the ring, to myself. “I’m going to show them all how harmless I really am.”
I stood, straightened my sleeves, and walked to the bedroom door with all the confidence I could summon. Which, unfortunately, vanished the moment I touched the doorknob.
“You can do this, Nico,” I whispered again, forehead briefly resting on the wood. “You survived knife girl. You can survive breakfast with the ice king.”
With a deep breath and slightly shaking hands, I opened the door.
Empty.
No guards. No maids. Not even a shadow. Creepy.
The silence wasn’t comforting—it was... ominous.
I tiptoed down the stairs, half expecting a jump scare from Mrs. Morello. And when I reached the bottom—
Bingo.
There she was.
The head maid.
The Gatekeeper of Judgmental Glares.
I approached her cautiously. “Um... good morning, Mrs. Morello.”
She turned, face as unreadable as a stone slab.
“Do you need something, sir?” she asked, her tone perfectly polite—and perfectly frosty.
There it was again.
That look.
Like I was a roach that somehow learned to walk on two legs and talk about feelings. Still, I smiled. Like an i***t. Like someone who didn’t notice the icicles in her eyes.
“I was wondering where I could see my husband,” I said softly, like I was asking for a second slice of cake.
She blinked. Slowly. Then sighed deeply, as though I had just asked her to dig her own grave. “You’ve already troubled Master Dante enough—”
“I STILL WANT TO MEET MY HUSBAND,” I said, cutting her off, my voice firmer than even I expected.
Her brows lifted slightly, clearly unimpressed. And look—I knew how it sounded. I knew Dante probably thought I staged last night’s whole stabby drama for attention. But I wasn’t going to hide. If I was going to escape this hell with dignity—and maybe, one day, a divorce—I had to win him over.
Even if he hated me.
Even if he looked at me like I might combust at any moment.
He’s my husband, whether he wanted me or not. And I refused to keep tiptoeing like a ghost.
Mrs. Morello exhaled again, like the air was just too heavy with my existence. “He’s in his study,” she finally said.
I lit up like someone had just handed me a puppy.
“Thank you!” I chirped, already turning to leave—when something caught my eye.
A young maid pushing a small cart of breakfast toward the opposite hall. Silver lids. Linen napkins. The works.
“Wait,” I said, stepping in front of her. “Is that for Dante?”
She froze like I’d just asked her to name all fifty states backwards. Her eyes flicked to Mrs. Morello, who gave her the slightest nod—reluctant and full of unspoken curses.
“Y-yes, sir,” the maid said nervously.
Perfect.
Operation: Breakfast Peace Offering begins now.
“I’ll take it to him,” I said, gripping the handles of the cart like it was a chariot of destiny.
The maid blinked. “I-I can—”
“Nope,” I cut in with a smile. “Wife duties.”
She stepped back immediately, like the cart had suddenly grown thorns. And off I went—pushing the breakfast cart through the pristine halls of the Vitale mansion like some overly polite ghost of domestic hope.
“Let’s do this, Nico,” I whispered. “Worst case, he throws toast at my face.”
Pause.
“Okay, maybe the worst case is another knife. But toast seems more likely.”
The hallway to Dante’s study stretched out ahead like a long road to a dragon’s lair.
But I was done being afraid.
Sort of.
Mostly.
...
Okay, 20% brave. But that’s still something, right?
***
[Study Room, Later...]
I stood outside the study room door, breakfast cart in front of me like a knight holding a paper shield.
My palms were sweaty.
My heart was doing gymnastics.
But I had already come this far.
You wanted to prove you're harmless, Nico. So prove it. Even if he throws the damn tray at your face.
I sucked in a long, shaky breath.
Then, KNOCK. KNOCK.
A cold, firm voice responded instantly. “Come in.”
I pushed the door open slowly, trying not to look too dramatic about it.
There he was.
Dante Vitale.
Sitting behind a sleek black desk like he owned the air around him—which, technically, he did. Dressed in a crisp charcoal suit, eyes sharper than razors, jaw tight like he’d just bitten into something bitter and decided to spit it out later. And standing beside him was someone else—tall, professional, and very well-dressed. His assistant, probably.
Dante’s gaze lifted when he noticed it was me.
And then—the temperature dropped.
His eyes darkened. Icy. Unwelcoming.
“I don’t recall giving you permission to enter my study,” he said flatly.
I flinched. Hard.
That tone—it hit like muscle memory.
Like Father.
No—my adopted father. That man. That voice. That glare. It echoed in Dante now, and my body reacted before my mind did.
Still, I forced myself to speak. Soft. Polite. Brave, even if I was shaking inside.
“I… I brought you breakfast.”
His eyes narrowed. Still cold. Still burning straight through me.
“This morning,” I continued nervously, “I was worried I’d upset you—”
“Your appearance itself is upsetting,” he cut in, his voice as sharp as a slap. “So get lost.”
...
...
...
Yep. There it was.
Exactly the kind of response I’d expected from him. And yet…why did it still hurt so damn much?
Still, I smiled. Tight-lipped. Shaky. I gripped the cart’s handle like it was an anchor and tried again. “I… I just thought maybe we could… eat together.”
...
… Did I really just say that?
Did those words just fall out of my mouth like that?!
Why am I like this?!
His chair scraped back violently. He stood—slowly, like a storm winding up.
“Are you f*****g kidding me?”** he growled low, menacing, almost amused in a dangerous way.
Okay.
Abort mission.
Retreat.
Run, Nico, run—NOPE. Legs won’t move.
I stayed.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice wobbling. “I just wanted to clear up the misunderstanding.”
He folded his arms across his broad chest, staring like I was a particularly annoying mosquito buzzing in his office. “What kind of misunderstanding?”
I swallowed, eyes downcast. “That I… that I’m the one who planned that attack last night.”
He scoffed. Loud. Sharp. It bounced off the walls and made my stomach twist. “And you think dragging in cold toast and acting like some trembling deer clears that up?”
Gah.
I hate this.
I hate that my eyes are stinging.
I bit my lip, trying not to show anything. Trying to hold it all in.
“I…”
But before I could say another word, he was already walking toward me. Each step felt like thunder in my ears. He stopped just inches away, and I looked up.
Mistake.
Why is he so tall? Why do his eyes look like they’ve seen wars and built walls out of the rubble?
He looked down at me with barely concealed fury.
“Listen up,” he said, his voice low but seething. “I don’t give a damn about this marriage. So stop pretending to be my responsible wife here. Stop playing your games with me. You mean nothing here. Nothing.”
I looked up, trembling.
And then he said it.
“So if you want to go back to your loving family… you’re free to go.”
Loving family?
Loving?
My throat closed up.
I smiled bitterly.
“I can’t go back there.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Why?
Why?
Because if I go back, they'll lock me in that cold, windowless room again. Because I’ll be blamed. Punished. Forgotten. Because I’m not a son—I’m a tool. A prop. A mistake—they dressed up in suits and fake smiles.
I steadied myself.
This was my moment.
My voice was soft but steady.
“Because no matter what you say, Dante… we are lawfully wedded." I locked my gaze with him, with confidence this time, and said, "And I’m willing to do everything to make this marriage succeed.”
There it was.
My stupid, desperate, hopeful little heart lay bare on the floor.
The assistant behind him actually choked—visibly stunned, his jaw slightly parted like he’d just watched someone walk willingly into a lion’s cage.
Dante?
He didn’t move. But his eyes—they grew darker.
Colder.
More dangerous.
And for a second… I wondered if I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life. Dante’s lips curled into a bitter scoff.
A sound with no humor. Only warning.
“You want to succeed in this marriage?” he repeated, like it was a challenge, not a question.
He stepped forward—deliberate, slow. Closing the distance between us until the air itself felt thinner.
His eyes sharpened like knives. His voice dipped into something darker.
Something crueler.
“Alright then,” he said, voice low and venom-laced. “Let’s play the house game, Nico.”
My breath caught.
House game?
What did he mean?
Whatever it was… It didn’t sound safe.
It didn’t sound kind.
It didn’t sound like something I could win.
And yet—there was no running now.
- Writer
