Page 3 of Married to the Ruthless Mafia Heir

Three seconds. Maybe two. Then he was gone.

The suit was smooth now. I hung it on the hanger and set the steamer aside. Dante loved custom suits. This one would look elegant on him. Handsome.

"It's done, Mr. Moretti."

Dante sat on the sofa, flipping through a magazine. He didn't look up. "Thanks."

I backed toward the door slowly, never meeting his eyes. I reached for the handle, then stopped.

"Um..."

I turned back and gathered the courage to glance at him.

He leaned against the sofa, robe loose, morning sunlight streaming through the window and carving shadows across his face. He looked like a sculpture.

"Salvador... he actually misses you. He talks about you a lot."

I didn't know why I said it. Maybe because that comment—"not easy"—made me think the relationship between him and his father wasn't as simple as it seemed.

Dante didn't respond.

The sunlight hit his profile. I couldn't read his expression.

I said what I needed to say and left quickly.

I closed the door and leaned against the hallway wall, breathing deeply.

My heart was still pounding—harder than when I'd walked in on him fresh from the shower.

Why?

He'd only said "thanks."

I covered my face and stood there for a few seconds, steadying my breath, then headed to Salvador's room.

Salvador's temper was awful. He was obsessive and ruthless. I'd heard that two years ago, a car accident left him wheelchair-bound. The physical damage had broken his spirit. Going from powerful to dependent had made him angry. Extreme.

I understood his pain. That understanding helped me endure his temper.

I opened the door. Salvador sat in his wheelchair, white-haired, legs covered with a thick blanket. His eyes fixed on me.

"Mr. Morreti, I'm here."

After over a year with Salvador, I knew how to handle him.

When I'd first interviewed, he'd tested everyone. He threw things. Gave bizarre orders—like moving every flower in the garden to the greenhouse, then back out again. Everyone before me had fled, men and women alike. Only I'd followed every command, no matter how difficult or unreasonable.

By enduring Salvador's temper, I'd earned this job.

When he called me to his room outside work hours, it usually meant his mood was bad, and he needed to improve it by tormenting me.

Fine. I was ready.

But I never expected—

"Elena."

Salvador spoke slowly, his voice aged but powerful, like an old lion's growl.