A Clumsy Maid Bathed the Mafia Boss's Dog—Then He Shocked Her by Refusing to Let Her Leave His Home...

For three days, I didn't speak to Matteo.

I did my work. I cleaned the guest rooms, folded the linens, and prepped the fire logs. But whenever Matteo entered a room, I left it.

Bruno stayed by my side constantly, a black shadow that moved whenever I moved.

By Friday evening, the estate was quiet. A fresh layer of fog had rolled in off the lake, swallowing the trees in a thick, white mist.

I was in my cottage, sitting by the hearth with a cup of tea, reading one of the veterinary textbooks I’d bought at the second-hand shop. Bruno lay beside me, his heavy head resting on my foot.

A knock came at the door.

Three quiet beats.

I paused, looking at the door. Bruno didn't growl; his tail gave a small, lazy thud against the floorboards.

I stood up, walked over, and opened it.

Matteo stood on the porch. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket or his wool overcoat. Just a simple black sweater, trousers, and snow on his dark hair. In his hands, he held a wooden tray carrying two chipped mugs and a fresh pot of coffee.

“May I come in?” he asked softly.

Not I’m coming in. Not Open the door.

A choice.

I stepped back, opening the door wider. “Yes.”

Matteo wiped his boots carefully on the mat, walked inside, and set the tray down on the small secondhand table. He didn't sit down; he remained standing near the door, keeping his hands in his pockets.

“I brought coffee,” he said. “Rosa made it. Not the machine.”

“Thank you,” I said, sitting back down in my armchair.

Matteo looked around my small cottage. The secondhand furniture. The cracked kettle on the stove. The jar labeled VAN on top of the fridge where I kept my small savings.

“You’re right,” Matteo said quietly.

I blinked, looking up from my book. “What?”

Matteo let out a long, slow breath, looking down at his polished shoes. “You were right. In the library. I spent fifteen years running an organization where command is the only thing that keeps people alive. When I saw Grant in that room... when I heard what he did to you... my first instinct was to destroy him so completely that he couldn't exist in your world anymore.”

He looked up, meeting my eyes with a raw, startling vulnerability.

“I didn't see that I was taking your voice away,” Matteo said softly. “I thought I was shielding you. But I was just standing in front of you so you couldn't speak.”

My chest tightened. A lump formed in my throat, making it hard to swallow.

“I’ve lived my whole life being spoken for, Matteo,” I whispered. “Grant told me what I thought, what I felt, and what I was worth. When I left him, I swore I would rather starve in a cold cottage than let another man make decisions for me.”

Matteo walked over slowly, sinking onto his knees beside my chair—the powerful, dangerous mob boss sitting on the rug at my feet, his dark eyes level with mine.

“I don't want to make decisions for you, Clara,” Matteo whispered, reaching out slowly, giving me time to pull away. When I didn't, he rested his hand gently over mine. “I want to stand beside you while you make them.”

I looked at his large, strong hand covering mine. The calluses from weapons and steering wheels. The warmth that seeped straight through my cold skin.

“What if my decisions don't align with your security detail?” I asked, a tiny smile touching the corner of my mouth.

Matteo gave a soft, genuine laugh—a sound so rare and warm it transformed his sharp face completely. “Then Leo will have a very stressful winter.”

Bruno nudged his nose between our joined hands, letting out a loud, dramatic sigh before dropping his head back onto my foot.

We both laughed quietly.

For the next hour, we sat by the fire, drinking Rosa’s coffee, talking about normal, ordinary things. He told me about growing up in Lake Geneva, about his grandfather who built the estate, and about how Bruno had been brought to him two years ago after being rescued from a dog-fighting ring in Indiana.

“He wouldn't let anyone touch him for three months,” Matteo said, watching the dog sleep. “The vets wanted to put him down. They said he was too broken. Too aggressive.”

“He wasn't broken,” I said softly. “He was just waiting for someone to stop forcing him.”

Matteo looked at me, his gaze lingering on my lips before rising to meet my eyes. “I know the feeling.”

The air between us grew thick and warm, charged with an intensity that had nothing to do with danger or fear.

Matteo leaned in slowly, giving me every opportunity to stop him.

I didn't move.

When his lips touched mine, it wasn't harsh or commanding like I had feared. It was soft, hesitant, and breathtakingly tender—a request, not a demand.

I let out a soft sigh, my fingers rising to tangle in his dark, cold hair, pulling him closer.

When he finally pulled back, his dark eyes were burning with a fire that made my heart race wildly against my ribs.

“Clara,” he whispered against my lips. “Stay at the main house tonight. Not because I command it. Because I want you near me.”

I looked into his eyes, seeing the man behind the reputation—the man who gave his dog choices, who ate tomato soup in a chipped bowl, and who learned how to listen.