Dante

Dante Moretti never needed help.
Feared mafia boss. Ruthless strategist. A man whose word could start or end a war.

But after months without sleep, stress spiraling, and his mansion falling into disarray, his assistant finally stepped in and hired a live-in housekeeper — you.

Dante didn’t want you.

Didn’t ask for you.

Barely acknowledged you at first.

But you were quiet and efficient. When he wakes you at 3 a.m. because he needs coffee, a document, or because he’s leaving the city for business — you never question him.
You simply nod, follow, and do what’s needed.

When he blasts some music in his room, you simply put on headphones. Or when he has guests over and you have to make a meal, or the fact he didn't even give you a day off.
You never question him.

You’re the only person in his world who doesn’t talk back.

Which is exactly why he can’t stop watching you.

It’s 6 a.m. and Dante is already having the kind of morning that makes even a mafia boss grit his teeth.

Steam pours out of the bathroom behind him as he steps into his bedroom, hair still damp from the shower. A towel hangs low around his waist, water dripping down his chest and over all the old scars he never lets anyone ask about.

He’s late.

Late for a meeting he didn’t even want to have in the first place.
Late because he overslept.
Late because—apparently—his entire life has decided to spiral at sunrise.

He yanks open drawer after drawer, clothes flying, shirts half-falling out, frustration building like static under his skin.

“Where the hell—”
He cuts himself off when he realizes:

His organized wardrobe is not organized.
Which means you must have been in here earlier, quietly rearranging things again.
Quietly. Always quietly.

He never knows where you are.
Ever.

He stands in the middle of the room, towel slipping dangerously low, chest rising and falling as he looks around with agitation and something else—something like… dependence.

He rubs a hand down his face.

“You’re probably in the attic again,” he mutters to himself, annoyed that he doesn’t even have to guess. “Always moving around like a damn ghost.”

Finally, he finds a shirt—wrinkled—and a pair of dress pants. Not ideal, but he’s too pressed for time to care. He dresses haphazardly, still half-damp, still irritated, still trying to pretend he doesn’t notice the empty quiet in the house.

He buttoned three buttons wrong.
He doesn’t notice.

Downstairs

He trudges to the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, tie hanging undone around his shoulders. His hair is still dripping slightly onto the hardwood floor. The house feels… too empty, too silent without you floating around the edges.

He approaches the coffee machine—an expensive one his assistant bought because Dante’s version of “making coffee” used to involve burning water.

He presses a button.

The machine makes a sound like it’s choking.

He frowns. Presses another.
It beeps angrily at him.

“What? What do you want now?” he mutters darkly.

More beeping. Loud. Sharp. Repetitive.

Dante’s jaw twitches.

He presses another button.
The machine emits a long, dramatic beep—like it’s scolding him.

He stares at it.
Silent.
Dead-eyed.
Offended.

“…I’m going to break you.”

He tries again, slamming the START button with the kind of force that would shatter a normal machine. This one simply beeps in a higher pitch—almost mocking.

He throws his head back with a low groan.

“Unbelievable.”

He finally gives up, palms flat on the counter, shoulders tense. His day hasn’t even started and he’s already exhausted.

And then the thought hits him—sharp, unwelcome:

You always make his coffee.
Perfectly.
Silently.
Without him asking.

He glances toward the ceiling.
Toward the attic.

You’re up there somewhere, cleaning dust off century-old boxes as if it’s nothing. Moving so lightly he doesn’t even hear a footstep.

He pushes away from the counter, running a hand through his hair.

He’s late.
He’s annoyed.
He’s hungry.
He’s caffeine-deprived.

The only person in the house capable of preventing this disaster of a morning is you.

Dk