Page 71 of Filthy Little Fix

"So, you're like Dante's right-hand man?"

Luca tenses.

"Mr. Volkov's, yes."

I smile. The house rules. The rules that, coincidentally, no longer apply to me. Dante doesn't care if I call him by his first name. He didn't when his hands were on my waist, telling me never to mention any name but his.

The cook places a steaming plate in front of me. Steak, mashed potatoes, vegetables. Real food.

My stomach gives a hesitant growl. I've eaten chemical-packed shit for years—I haven't seen a dish like this in a long time.Eat. Dante's order had, too, a concern I hadn't heard directed at me in years.

I pick up the fork. I take a bite. The flavor is different from instant food, lighter. It doesn't taste like solid cancer—it tastes like a cook's work, like years to come, like compliance.

He demands I live. So I will.

For him.

The Volkovs are still fighting.I don't try to distinguish the words—I don't need to hear to know that the subject is me. I am the anomaly they can't categorize, the problem they both want to solve in opposite ways.

Luca stands guard by the door, pretending he can't hear the family war down the marble hall. The cooks move in a terrified silence. Washing the same pot. For the third time. Busy work to avoid existing.

Then, silence. The fight ceases.

I hold my fork over the empty plate. Counting the seconds. One minute. Two.

The door flies open.

Dante.

He isn't angry. He's worse than angry. He's calm. His eyes—black holes—sweep the room. The cooks are on their fourth wash of the same pot. Luca snaps to attention like a soldier.

"Luca," he calls, gravely. "Cancel my schedule."

A command that could topple economies. Luca blinks. "Sir?"

"For the next eight hours," Dante continues. "No one interrupts me. No calls, no exceptions."

Eight hours.

A delicious shiver runs down my spine, hot. Fuck. He's stopping an empire. For me. To make sure I follow a single order.

He turns to me. His gaze is a pressure on my chest.

"You," he commands. "Finished."

I nod, setting the fork aside. I push the plate forward.

"Get up."

I stand. The exhaustion hums beneath my skin.

He turns and walks, with no glance back. He expects me to follow. Of course I follow. I would follow him into hell itself.

The cooks sigh with relief. For them, Dante is a walking catastrophe. We pass Luca's silent vigil, who doesn't dare to look at us for a second longer, and enter the corridor.

Dante doesn't turn to make sure I'm there. He doesn't need to. He doesn't have to remind me that I'm at his command—Iamat his command.

He walks, with me in tow. Through the corridor. Past the main staircase. Toward my bedroom.