The Romano mansion was quieter the next morning, but the air was still heavy with smoke and tension. Extra guards lined the halls, and every servant moved with silent urgency.
Dante sat at the head of the long dining table, his suit immaculate as always, though his jaw was tight with restrained fury. Marco stood beside him, flipping through a folder of reports.
"The traitor was one of our own men," Marco said grimly. "Paid off to give the attackers access. We caught him before he could escape."
Dante's eyes narrowed, cold as steel. "Bring him to the cellar. I'll deal with him myself."
Elena, who had just entered with Arianna, froze at the chill in his tone. She didn't want to know what "deal with" meant. Arianna, too innocent to understand, tugged at her father's sleeve.
"Papa, are you leaving again?"
Dante's hardened features softened for a heartbeat. He crouched, brushing her curls back. "I'll never leave you, princess. But there are bad men, and Papa has to make sure they never come near you again."
Arianna frowned, then turned to Elena.
"Can you stay with me today? We can bake cookies. Papa never eats them, but maybe he will if you ask."
Elena smiled gently, nodding. "Of course."
Dante's gaze flicked between them, his daughter's bright trust and Elena's soft smile. Something in his chest tightened. He didn't like it—didn't like how this woman was weaving herself into his life. But when Arianna's small hand slipped into Elena's, he said nothing.
---
Later that day, Dante descended into the Romano cellar where the traitor was bound to a chair. The man was trembling, blood on his lip.
"Please, Boss… it wasn't me… I had no choice—"
Dante's gun clicked as he pressed it to the man's temple.
"There's always a choice. And you chose against me."
The execution was quick, cold, and merciless. By the time Dante returned upstairs, his suit jacket was gone, his shirt sleeves rolled up, veins still tense from violence.
He entered the kitchen, expecting silence—only to find Elena and Arianna covered in flour, laughing as they pulled burnt cookies from the oven.
Arianna spotted him instantly. "Papa! We made cookies!"
Elena froze, suddenly aware of how out of place she must look—flour on her cheeks, sleeves rolled to her elbows. But instead of anger, Dante's lips curved faintly, the ghost of a smile.
Arianna rushed forward, offering him a misshapen cookie. "Try it!"
For his daughter's sake, Dante took a bite. It was terrible. But when Arianna beamed at him, pride shining in her little face, he swallowed and said, "Perfect."
Elena's lips twitched, amused. "You don't have to lie, you know."
His eyes snapped to hers, sharp and unreadable.
"I don't lie," he said smoothly. "Not to my daughter."
Their eyes lingered, the kitchen suddenly smaller, the tension thicker. Elena felt her pulse quicken—caught between the danger he carried like a second skin and the strange safety she felt when he was near.
Before the silence grew too heavy, Arianna tugged both their hands and forced them down to sit beside her at the table. The three of them—Mafia boss, nanny, and child—sat together for the first time like a family.
Dante watched Elena as Arianna chattered, his mind torn in two. One part screamed to keep her at arm's length. The other whispered something far more dangerous:
She belongs here.
---