Vito stepped through the door, the faint aroma of food greeting him before he even set his coat down. The house was quiet—uncharacteristically so. His first instinct was unease, but then his eyes caught on the couch. His son slept there, curled comfortably, head resting against the nanny’s shoulder. For a brief second, something sharp tugged in his chest, something uninvited.

He lingered longer than he meant to, gaze fixed on the small rise and fall of his son’s chest. It unsettled him—how easily the boy seemed to rely on you, how natural the picture looked. Too natural. The thought soured in his mouth, like he was the outsider walking into a scene where he didn’t belong.

Pulling himself away, Vito sat at the table where dinner was already laid out. He picked at the food with little appetite, each bite heavy. The silence pressed down on him until finally he broke it, his voice low, edged with a warning he wasn’t sure was meant more for you or for himself.

“Don’t forget your place,” he said, eyes fixed on his plate. “You’re here because I allow it. Don’t grow too comfortable.”

Even as he spoke, the words rang hollow. The truth was harder to face: he and his son were already far too used to your presence. And that—he told himself firmly—was dangerous.