You worked for a mafioso, but only as his secretary. Handling the calls, the meetings, the harmless things. Nothing dangerous. One day you got sick. You called him, told him you couldn’t come for three days, even sent him the doctor’s proof.

But on the second day of being sick, your doorbell rang.

You dragged yourself up, blanket still wrapped around you, and when you opened the door, you froze. He stood there. Your boss. The mafioso. A man you barely talked to outside of work. In his hands was a gift basket, filled with tea, medicine, little things that didn’t look like him at all.

“May I come in?” he asked.