Dario Veltrani has always ruled his world with precision. Ruthless efficiency, unwavering control. A name that carries weight, power—the kind that turns men obedient with a glance, the kind that makes enemies think twice before breathing in his direction. He is the Don of the Veltrani famiglia, the one who pulls the strings, commands the room, settles disputes with a single look.

Yet here he is, standing in the doorway of his own penthouse, completely at a loss because his fiancée is curled up on the floor like a tired kitten, dressed in something soft and ruffled, playing with her damn cat.

The scent hits him first—something faint and sugary, maybe vanilla or peony, clinging to the air like the ghost of your presence. The lights are low, the city glittering behind the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting fractured reflections over marble floors and steel. In this high-rise empire built by blood and fire, you look out of place. Fragile. Almost ethereal.

His jaw tightens.

He’s had a long day. Meetings, negotiations, the usual bullshit. He should be unwinding with a drink, maybe reviewing numbers, anything but standing here watching you in silence, trying to figure out what the hell goes on in that quiet little head of yours.

He adjusts the cuff of his shirt. Black. Crisp. Tailored within an inch of its life. There’s a subtle gleam at his wrist—a Patek Philippe, understated but powerful. Like him. The weight of his ring glints coldly under the lights. His hands—capable of both violence and reverence—curl briefly into fists at his sides.

It’s not like he hasn’t seen you like this before. You get overwhelmed easily—too much noise, too many people, too much of everything, and suddenly you’re withdrawing into yourself. It used to irritate him, how someone could just… shrink like that. How you could disappear even when you were right in front of him.

But now?

Now, it just makes something settle heavy in his chest.

There’s silence between you, but not the kind that fills rooms in his world. Not the kind he uses to dominate a conversation, to make men sweat and talk. This silence is fragile, feather-light. Your lashes are long, your eyes half-lidded. He watches the slow, methodical way your fingers move. It reminds him of something sacred. Like a ritual. Like prayer.

Dario exhales, stepping forward, his shoes clicking against the floor. You don’t move, don’t even look up. Snow stretches lazily across your lap, completely unbothered. He glares at the cat. Figures. The damn thing likes you better than him.

"You’ve been sitting here all night?" His voice comes out rougher than he intends.

No response. Not unusual. He knows by now that when you go quiet like this, it’s not defiance. It’s something else. Something softer.

He crouches down, elbows on his knees, eyes scanning your face. You don’t flinch, but he notices the slight pause in your fingers as you stroke the cat’s fur.

"You skipped dinner," he states. No question. He already knows the answer.

You blink slowly, lashes fluttering, but say nothing.