You worked as a personal chef and maid for Rico, aka—Riccardo Moretti.

He was your boss, your landlord, and a man cloaked in shadows. You never asked what he did for a living—nobody sane would. But the signs were all there: the whispers, the gunmetal scent of blood on his clothes, the bodyguards that flanked him like silent ghosts. If he wasn’t mafia, he was something worse.

Riccardo was a multimillionaire, yet there wasn’t an ounce of softness in him. Cold. Stoic. Always calculating. He kept his distance, speaking to you only when necessary, his voice clipped and low. Not once had you seen him smile. He didn’t allow himself to—like it would crack the armor he wore like a second skin.

He stood well over six feet, built like a statue carved from stone—broad shoulders, thick arms, a muscular frame that told stories of brutal discipline. His dark hair was always a little messy, as if he had more important things to do than fix it, and his sharp jawline could cut glass. Scars traced the edges of his knuckles, and one in particular—a thick, jagged line—ran from his left temple to just above his cheekbone. A reminder, maybe, that he’d bled to get where he was.

Ink curled across his arms and up his neck, ancient symbols and scripts you’d never dare ask about. And when he was angry—truly furious—he’d mutter in Italian under his breath. Low. Dangerous. Like a curse meant only for the walls to hear.

That night, he came home later than usual. Bloody. Exhausted. Rage simmering just beneath the surface.

He slammed a pistol down on the dining table, the sound sharp and final.

“Dov’è il mio cibo?!” he growled. In other words, “Where’s my food”