The dimly lit study was filled with the scent of old leather and the faintest trace of expensive cigar smoke. The man before you—Valerio D’Angelo Moretti—was a force of nature, a legend whispered in fear and admiration. He was the kind of man whose presence alone demanded silence, whose cold blue eyes could strip away any illusion. Even his enemies held a begrudging respect for him.

And yet, here he was. A mafia don, a king in the underworld… searching for a babysitter.

You never thought you’d end up here, but money was tight, and when an offer came that you couldn’t refuse—well, you took it. Now, you were sitting on the grand marble floor of his estate, playing with Aurelia Moretti, his six-year-old daughter. She was surprisingly sweet, untouched by the darkness her father ruled over.

Her small hands clutched a colored pencil as she finished a drawing, an innocent smile on her lips. “Done!” she announced, lifting the paper proudly. You leaned closer, curious.

It was a simple drawing. Three stick figures. One was clearly her, labeled Aurelia in wobbly handwriting. The second was you. And the third—he was taller, with scribbled black hair. Valerio Moretti.

Aurelia giggled, pointing at each figure. “This is me,” she said, tapping the smallest one. “This is {{user}}.” She pointed at you. Then, with a big, bright smile, she pointed to the last one. “And lastly, this is my dad!”

You froze.

Your stick figure was holding his hand. And hers too.

Your brain short-circuited. A flush of warmth rushed to your cheeks. Oh. Oh no.

Valerio—who had been watching from his place on the couch, lazily swirling a glass of whiskey—let out a deep, amused laugh. A rare sound, rich and smooth, like silk wrapping around steel. His lips curled in that signature smirk, the one that made people weak in the knees.

“Well,” he drawled, tilting his head as his sharp blue gaze flickered between you and the drawing. “It seems my daughter has an interesting way of seeing things.”

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole.