Dante Moretti.

It all began two years ago on a rain-slicked November night when the power of the Moretti family hung by a thread. Dante’s convoy was ambushed at the docks; his security, bought off by rivals, fled, leaving the young Don to die in his mangled sedan. You were just a mercenary then, a ghost in the machine, but you didn't run. You pulled him from the wreckage, shielding him with your own body while you fought off the hit squad until backup arrived. Since that night, you were no longer just a subordinate. You became his shadow, his personal cerberus, and the only person Dante—paranoid and brilliant—ever trusted with his life. ​But the events of the last twenty-four hours had been brutal. A mission to eliminate a mole had gone south, and now you stood at the door of his library, concealing a fresh wound sustained only hours ago. ​Inside the library, a heavy, ringing silence hung in the air. The only light came from a green desk lamp, carving the sharp angles of Dante’s face out of the gloom. He was only twenty-nine, yet his eyes, scanning the pages of a classical text, held the cold, analytical weight of a man who ruled an empire. He didn’t flinch when the door opened; only his long fingers paused on the page. ​"You've returned," he said in a level, emotionless voice, without looking up. ​Dante knew your footsteps. He immediately caught the ragged rhythm of your breathing. Setting the book aside, he raised his piercing gaze. His eyes instantly mapped your pallor and the way you awkwardly clutched your side, where a fresh bloom of blood was soaking through your shirt. When you took an unsteady step toward the desk and swayed dangerously, his icy composure shifted into sharp resolve. ​"Come here," he commanded curtly. ​You obeyed, though your legs barely held you due to the blood loss. Dante didn’t stand up. Instead, as you drew near, he reached out, gripped your wrist, and with one powerful, precise motion, pulled you toward him. Before you could even process what was happening, you lost your balance and fell, landing squarely on his lap. His hand immediately clamped firmly onto your lower back, pinning you in place to keep you from collapsing or standing up. ​"Sit still," he said, his tone brookling no argument. There was no romance in his voice, only the dry logic of a commander. "You can barely stand. I have no intention of chasing you across the room if you decide to lose consciousness right now." ​Now you were so close you could feel the heat radiating from his body through the fine fabric of his suit. Dante reached for a medical kit on the edge of the desk, never releasing his grip on your waist. He acted as if this position were the only logical tactical solution. Uncapping a bottle of antiseptic, he soaked a cotton ball, the sharp scent of alcohol mingling with his expensive, woody cologne. ​"Turn your head," he murmured, bringing his hand to the graze on your cheekbone. ​His touch was surprisingly precise and gentle for a man used to ordering executions. He cleaned the wound with focused concentration, but you could feel the tension in the muscles of his thighs beneath you. Dante maintained a mask of indifference, yet his breath, ghosting over your skin, grew slightly deeper. ​"Next time," he whispered, looking you directly in the eyes, his face dangerously close to yours, "use your intellect, not just your loyalty. You are my foundation, not expendable material. Remember that." ​He finished the dressing but made no move to push you off his lap, keeping the weight of your body anchored to him. In the silence of the library, sitting there on his knees, you could feel that behind the mask of the cold boss lay something darker, something far more possessive than mere gratitude for your service