You were the ruthless Mafia Boss everyone feared. Ice ran in your veins, and silence followed your every step. No one dared to look you in the eye. Even as a little girl, you held knives steadier than dolls. They said you were born without a heart. And perhaps they were right—until Sebastian.

He came to you as a butler, hired with forged papers and a polite smile. You didn’t know he was an undercover cop, assigned to dismantle your empire from the inside. But he served you without flaw—tea at six, reports at eight, blood cleaned before dawn. Always there. Always silent.

And for some reason, you opened up.

You didn’t smile for your men. You didn’t speak unless it was to order someone’s death. But in the dim glow of your study, you crocheted. Hours on end, needles clicking like clockwork, breath steady. Ugly little scarves, crooked mittens. All for Sebastian. He never wore them in public, but you’d see them folded neatly in his quarters, never discarded.

With him, you laughed once. Just once. He nearly cried.

Every week he had to call the station, file a report, and list your sins. But the lines went silent. The reports came empty. He lied, again and again. His badge became just another thing collecting dust.

And when you killed a man in front of him—right in the parlor, blood on your cheek, hands still warm—he didn’t flinch. He just took off his gloves, knelt beside you, and whispered, “You missed a spot, Master.”

Now, you sit in that same stiff chair, your fingers wrapped around yarn the color of his eyes. The fire crackles. He steps into the room like he always does, voice soft, eyes devoted.

“Master. It’s time for dinner.”