It was 10 a.m., and sunlight streamed softly through the kitchen window, casting warm patches on the worn wooden table. Maria cradled a mug of coffee between her hands, the heat seeping slowly into her skin. Yesterday, she had lost her job — the crushing weight of uncertainty settling over her like a thick fog.
For a moment, she let herself breathe, letting the quiet of the morning fill the room. The clink of the spoon against the cup was the only sound. Her eyes wandered to the cracked photograph on the windowsill — her father's smile, gentle and unwavering.
Neo-Angelo had never been distant. Far from it. When he was present, he was wholly there — patient, loving, firm in the ways only a father could be. She remembered the soft mornings when he'd wake her with a smile, the way his hands steadied her when the world felt too heavy, the quiet strength that made her feel safe.
She remembered how, despite his unwavering presence when he was around, her father's work often pulled him away. Late nights spent poring over papers, phone calls that stole his attention, and weekends sacrificed to meetings she never fully understood. His job as an accountant was demanding, and though he never let it show at home, Maria could feel the weight of it pressing down on him.
Still, whenever he was with her, it was real — patient lessons in the kitchen, quiet conversations about life, and a steady hand guiding her through storms she couldn't yet name. Those moments were the ones she held onto, even as the hours he spent at his desk grew longer and the silences between them stretched.
She sighed softly, setting her cup down. The man in the photograph was the father she knew — gentle, firm, and fiercely protective, even if life often took him elsewhere. He had wanted only one thing: for his daughter to be safe. And she had clung to that hope, even as the world shifted beneath her feet.
Maria took a sip of the cooling coffee and exhaled slowly. The past was a place she visited often these days — a refuge, a reminder, a ghost.
Her gaze drifted to the faded photograph on the mantelpiece — her mother's serene smile frozen in time. She was only seven when her mother passed, a loss that never fully left her. Some in the family whispered that her father was somehow involved — a notion Maria had always rejected. Her father? No. He was gentle, loving, and fiercely protective. He would never hurt her mother.
But the whispers persisted. Quiet voices behind closed doors, hushed conversations that stopped when she entered the room. She remembered how her father would hush her softly, saying, "People talk, but you don't listen to whispers." He wanted her to believe in him, to hold on to the truth he showed her — a truth wrapped in patience and love.
No matter what others said, Maria's heart knew the man who had raised her — a steady presence in a world that often felt uncertain.
She took another slow sip of her coffee, letting her gaze wander toward the kitchen counter. The old cutting board still sat by the stove, worn with years of use. A memory tugged at her — one that surfaced often, especially now.
She was nineteen the day the memory always circled back to. She'd insisted on cooking dinner — wanted to take care of him for once, to show she'd learned something from all those evenings watching him at the stove. But he kept hovering, reaching for things, offering to help. She'd laughed, told him, "Sit down, relax. Just enjoy your beer."
And for a moment, he did. But she caught the look on his face — not upset, just quietly sad. Like being asked to step back from something he loved made him feel... unnecessary.
So she gave in. She handed him a knife and told him to prep the vegetables, just like she used to do for him. His eyes lit up. It was so simple — carrots, onions, peppers — but the pride in his smile stayed with her. He didn't say much, didn't need to. That moment was enough.
They had lived together all those years. He never pushed her to move out, never questioned her pace. He just made space for her to figure things out. That was the kind of father he was.
A tear slipped down Maria's cheek. This time, she didn't brush it away. She'd been so busy — work, life, trying to hold everything together — that she rarely let herself feel the weight of it all. But here, in the quiet morning light, the grief she'd buried so deep finally surfaced.
She closed her eyes, and the memory flooded in: the sizzle of meat cooking on the stove, the soft clatter of knives chopping vegetables, the faint melody of music drifting through the kitchen. She could almost hear his laugh — low, warm, full of pride as they moved around each other in the small space.
The scent of garlic and onions mixed with the morning light, grounding her to the present even as the past came alive.
For the first time in a long while, she let herself sit with the ache — the love, the loss, the quiet strength that still held her steady.
A sharp pounding on the door jolted Maria from her reverie. Her heart skipped a beat as she wiped her cheek and went to open it. Standing there was Felix — a family friend since before she was born. Someone she trusted deeply, but whose presence always carried an unspoken weight. His face was stern, unreadable. Without waiting for an invitation, he pushed the door open and stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room as if assessing everything.
"Pack your bags. We're leaving," he said without preamble.
Maria rubbed her eye, glancing at the clock. "The fuck, Felix? It's ten in the morning. I'm not eight anymore — you can't just barge in and tell me what to do."
His expression didn't shift, but a flicker of amusement touched his cold eyes. "Watch your language, princess. I didn't come here to argue. Or to remind you that I can still put you over my knee like I used to when you were eight." He checked his expensive watch, tone smooth and unbothered.
She scoffed, folding her arms. "Seriously, what the hell is this? You don't just show up out of nowhere barking orders."
Felix stepped closer, his voice dropping. "And yet, here I am."
Maria whimpered a little.
"Don't give me that whimper, Miss 'I'm a grown-ass woman now'." He stepped in again, his tall frame nearly eclipsing her. "Either you pack yourself, or I'll pack for you. Trust me, you don't want me choosing your clothes."
She crossed her arms, trying to act brave. "Fine."
He watched her for a beat — unreadable — then turned on his heel and walked back toward the door without another word.
As Maria shoved clothes into her suitcase, his voice echoed from the first floor. "Princess?"
She snapped, "What?"
"You've got exactly twenty minutes. If you're not downstairs with a bag in hand, I'm coming back up."
A pause. "And I won't be as patient as I am now."
Upstairs, Maria groaned softly as she packed — stuffing clothes, her laptop, her phone charger, and at the very last moment Maria's eyes landed on the worn stuffed dog nestled in the corner of the shelf — ears flopped, fur matted from years of love. She hadn't thought about it in a long time, but now, it seemed impossible to leave without it.
She reached for it slowly, fingers brushing the faded fabric, and as soon as it was in her hands, a memory rose uninvited.
It had been her seventh birthday — the first one after her mother passed. Her father had rented out a little restaurant just for her, pulling every string he could to make it special. Only a few people showed up — family, a neighbor, one quiet friend from school — but Neo-Angelo made sure she smiled the whole day. He wore a ridiculous paper crown the whole night, helping the chef serve cake and holding her hand when she felt shy.
She remembered clinging to his side when she first saw the plush dog sitting by the kitchen window — meant as a decoration, not a gift. But the chef saw her eyes light up and gave it to her without a word. And when she turned to show it to her father, he just smiled.
"Looks like he found you," he'd said, brushing her hair from her face. "So keep him close. That's your new little guardian."
It had slept beside her every night since.
Now, twenty-one years later, she hugged the stuffed dog to her chest, breathing in whatever faint trace of childhood it still held. It smelled faintly of dust and cedar from the shelf, but the comfort was still there.
Footsteps creaked on the stairs behind her. Maria didn't turn. She just stood there, clutching the stuffed dog to her chest.
Felix paused in the doorway. For a long moment, he didn't say anything. Then, his voice softened in a way she hadn't heard in years.
"You still have that mutt, huh?"
She turned slightly, surprised. "You remember?"
A faint, tired smile pulled at his mouth. "Your seventh birthday. That busted-up little place your dad rented out. I think he paid off the chef to let you run the kitchen for ten minutes." His eyes flicked to the toy. "You wouldn't let go of that thing the second you saw it."
She let out a small breath, almost a laugh. "He called it my little guardian."
"Yeah. I remember."
A heavy pause stretched between them — warm, aching, tangled in memories neither of them knew how to name. Then Maria blinked hard and looked away.
Maria quickly wiped her cheek. "God, fuck, Felix — I was coming."
He stepped forward before she could storm past him, his hand wrapping gently around her wrist — not to hurt, just to stop her.
"Language." His voice was low and firm, but carried an unexpected tenderness. He looked at the stuffed dog in her hands.
"Bring it."
She hesitated, then hugged it tighter. After a breath, she tossed her suitcase shut, reached for her father's old jacket from the hook by the door, and pulled it on. It was too big, still smelled faintly of cedar and cologne, and for a moment, it felt like armor.
Felix's gaze didn't waver, but something shifted in the silence between them — maybe guilt, maybe memory.
And for the first time, he seemed to really see her.
She had no idea. Not about her father. Not about the world he left behind.
"You ready?" he asked, breaking the quiet.
Maria smirked, shaking her head. "You can't just show up and drag me out without an explanation, Felix. I'm not a kid anymore."
He gave a half-smile, the kind that never quite reached his eyes. "You know I'm not asking for permission." He paused, his gaze flicking briefly to her suitcase. "But I get it — this feels sudden."
He ran a hand through his hair, a rare flicker of hesitation in his movements. Then, without waiting, he grabbed the suitcase. "Let's just get it in the car. We'll talk on the drive."
Without waiting, he started down the stairs. Maria followed, her stuffed dog still tucked under one arm. At the bottom, he paused and glanced back with a smirk.
"And for the record, you're still a brat at twenty-eight."
She raised an eyebrow, her tone smug. "Good."
Felix let out a low chuckle — rare, fleeting — before pushing open the front door. Morning air spilled in, crisp and quiet. Without a word, he popped the trunk of his luxury car and tossed her suitcase inside like it weighed nothing.
Maria moved toward the passenger door, but before she could reach it, Felix caught her wrist. In one fluid motion, he spun her around and pressed her back gently against the car. The cool metal met her spine; her eyes widened.
"And stop rolling those beautiful eyes," he murmured, his voice soft — almost dangerous.
She gasped softly, startled by how close he was. "O-or what?" she challenged, a shake of defiance unmistakable in her voice.
His eyes darkened, breath warm against her cheek as he leaned in close. "You really shouldn't push me right now," he warned, voice low and sharp. Then, just before pulling back slightly, he whispered, "One more eye-roll..."
Maria held his gaze for a heartbeat — then, deliberately, rolled her eyes.
"You won't do anything," she said, voice steady.
He growled softly, frustration thick in his voice. "God, you're infuriating." His fingers moved deliberately, unbuttoning his shirt sleeve to reveal a tattooed forearm—dark ink weaving stories she'd never fully understand. His gaze locked onto hers, sharp and unwavering.
Without warning, he grabbed her hips and lifted her up, eliciting a surprised yelp.
She gasped, a small whimper escaping her lips.
He settled her onto the hood of the car, standing firmly between her legs. The world seemed to narrow around them, the air thick with unspoken warnings. His voice dropped, low and heavy with a deadly calm.
"Listen closely, sweetheart," he said, his eyes darkening. "You think you know who I am? You don't." He paused, letting the silence stretch, the weight of what was coming pressing down like a storm. Then, almost casually, he added, "I'm a fucking mafia leader. I've killed men for less than a rolled eye."
His hand came up, gripping her chin gently but firmly, tilting her head back so their eyes met fully.
"M-mafia..." Her breath hitched, stomach twisting into knots.
A slow, dangerous smirk spread across his lips as he watched the flicker of fear in her eyes. "Yes. Mafia." His thumb traced a deliberate path along her bottom lip. "Now, roll those pretty eyes again. I dare you."
Maria hesitated, her breath catching — but then, with a flicker of defiance, she did it. She rolled her eyes.
Felix laughed — low and dark — the sound vibrating in the space between them.
"Bad girl," he murmured.
He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear.
"You're going to regret that."
Before she could react, his hands were at her waist. He lifted her effortlessly, making her gasp as a soft whimper escaped.
In one smooth motion, he threw her over his shoulder and strode to the car. Her fists lightly pounded against his back, but he didn't flinch. He opened the back door and tossed her into the seat with practiced ease. Then he climbed in after her, the car door slamming shut. The locks clicked with finality.
His voice, now low and dangerous, wrapped around her like smoke.
"Let's see what happens when you disrespect a mafia boss."
Her defiance cracked. Tears welled up.
"N-no... wait... I—I'm sorry..."
He saw it — that flicker in her eyes when he said, "Come here."
That tone. That look.
Felix wasn't above tossing her over his knee.
He'd been a constant force in her life for as long as she could remember. Never afraid to raise his voice — or his hand. Not cruel, but always firm. When she acted out as a teen, he was the one who made sure she remembered her manners... usually the hard way.
She tensed, expecting a swat, a scolding... maybe worse.
But before anything, he pulled her close, one arm sliding around her waist and drawing her into his lap like she weighed nothing.
"Shh," he whispered, pressing her face into his chest. "I'm not gonna hurt you, brat."
"But you do need to learn some fucking respect," he murmured, stroking her hair — the way that made her both melt and grumble at once.
He held her gently as tears welled in her eyes, his heart tightening at the sight. He never wanted to scare her like that, but he had to keep his tough exterior.
"There, there," he said softly, wiping the corner of her eye. "Now, look at me."
She lifted her gaze, voice shaky. "I... I'm sorry. I just..."
"Shh." His thumb brushed another tear from her cheek, his tone calm but firm. "You don't need to explain."
His voice softened, but the steel never fully left. "I didn't mean to scare you, but I won't pretend to be something I'm not. You know how I am, sweetheart. I don't take disrespect — even from you."
He paused, letting the silence settle before his hand returned to her hair, slower this time.
"But that look in your eyes? That... wasn't what I wanted."
Maria swallowed hard, her gaze dropping for a moment. "I know..." she whispered, the weight of unspoken worries pressing down on her.
Her mind drifted to the men who had been coming around lately — strangers claiming to work in her father's accounting, their questions sharp and unwelcome. They lingered too long, their presence heavy with something unspoken. She hadn't known what they wanted, only that it unsettled her.
Felix hadn't said anything since they pulled away from the house. He sat beside her in the backseat, legs spread, one arm draped casually along the top of the seat behind her. From the outside, he looked composed — in control. But Maria could feel the tension radiating off him.
She sat stiffly, stuffed dog tucked tightly into her lap, fingers worrying at the fabric like a nervous tic. The silence wasn't awkward. It was heavy. Pressing.
Her voice broke through it, small but steady. "You've been gone six months."
Felix didn't look at her. "I know."
She turned her head toward the window. "And while you were gone... some of the guys that used to work with my dad started showing up. You know, the ones from his accounting office."
His eyes flicked to her now — sharp, alert. He didn't speak.
"They kept asking about old records. Papers. Names." Her voice lowered. "One of them tried to go into his study when I wasn't looking."
He straightened slightly. "They came into the house?"
Maria nodded. "Yeah. I told them to leave. That they had no right. The will left the house and everything to me — they didn't like that."
He said nothing. But his jaw clenched.
"They said my dad owed them. That he was hiding something big." Her voice wavered, arms tightening around the stuffed dog. "But... he was just an accountant. He did taxes, budgets, helped neighbors with audits." She paused, then looked up at Felix — really looked at him.
"That's all he ever was... wasn't he?"
The silence stretched.
"...Wasn't he?" she asked again, softer this time — but with a note of doubt creeping in, like her heart already knew the answer her mind couldn't accept.
Her question hung in the air like a knife.
He looked at her — and saw her as she'd always been. The little girl who used to curl up beside him during storms. The teen who pushed every button he had. The woman sitting beside him now, still clinging to a version of her life that had never really been real.
And she had no idea.
No idea who her father truly was.
No idea what kind of men she'd turned away.
No idea what kind of man he had always been becoming.
He didn't take this life just to protect her.
He was born into it — just like her father.
And now... she was closer to it than she'd ever realized.
He swallowed hard.
"Princess..."
"N-no... no — that's how you give me bad news," she whispered, eyes wide. "What's going on?"
Tears slipped down her cheeks as she glanced out the tinted window, watching Felix's men outside the house — locking every door, securing every window. One nodded toward the car before staying posted at the front steps, armed and alert. Her chest tightened.
Moments later, the car pulled away, the driver silent as the city blurred past them.
Felix didn't hesitate. He pulled her into his lap like he had so many times when she was younger, his arms wrapping around her protectively. He buried his face in her neck, breathing her in, grounding himself.
"Princess..." his voice broke. "Look at me."
She hesitated, but when he said, "Look at me, baby girl," something in her chest cracked, and she raised her teary gaze.
Out the window, the house disappeared from view as the car merged onto the highway. Maria caught one last glimpse of the guards — hands on weapons, ready for something she didn't understand.
And then... she looked at Felix.
His thumb brushed under her eye, wiping a tear with more care than she expected. He looked at her like it was physically hurting him to say the words.
"Your father... he wasn't just an accountant, princess."
He paused. His voice dropped.
"He was the head of the mafia. The most powerful man in the city."
Maria's breath caught in her throat.
"What... what are you talking about?"
Felix exhaled, his jaw tight, the truth finally spilling out.
"Those men who came to your house? They're not just old coworkers. They're after what your father left behind — his empire."
He looked her dead in the eye.
"And now... they're after you too."
"He was mafia." The words barely escaped her lips, trembling. "No... no, not my father. He was just an accountant. Worked hard on paperwork, brilliant with numbers. On weekends, he looked like a total nerd." A small, shaky laugh escaped her, more from disbelief than humor.
Felix's expression didn't waver. "That's what he wanted you to believe."
She shook her head, biting her lip. "But how? How does that even happen? He never mentioned any of this."
He tightened his hold, voice low and deadly serious. "Because he was protecting you. And that protection came at a price."
Her eyes widened, fear sharpening. "But what's in my house? What did he hide? What do they think I have?"
She swallowed hard, voice cracking. "But how? Why didn't he tell me?"
"Because protecting you meant hiding the truth. Your father wasn't just involved — he was the head of the entire mafia. The kingpin. And with that came power, enemies... and secrets."
Her eyes grew wide, fear creeping in. "But what's in my house? What did he hide? What do they think I have?"
"Your father hid his entire fortune in that house," Felix said, voice low and deliberate. "Jewels. Cash. Documents. Everything. He left it all to you."
Maria's breath hitched. Her grip on the stuffed dog tightened.
"That's why they want the house. They think you know where the stash is—where he hid the keys to the empire. But most importantly..." He paused.
She looked up, fear creeping into her expression. "But...?"
"But they want you too." His voice darkened, something lethal flickering beneath the surface. "You're the most valuable piece now. They think they can use you to get access to everything your father left behind.
You're not just an heir, princess. You're the fucking key to the entire Moretti legacy."
He pulled her closer as if his arms alone could shield her.
"But I don't know anything," she whispered, voice cracking. "I didn't even know he was—was that. I was never told. I don't know anything." Tears spilled freely now, panic setting in.
"I know, baby girl. I know you don't," Felix said, brushing her hair gently, soothingly. "But they don't care. They think you're hiding something. They think you know more than you're saying. And that's why I had to get you out of there. I can't let them touch you."
She sniffled, eyes searching his. "H-how do you know all this?"
Felix exhaled, leaning in so only she could hear it. "Because I was his right hand. Your father's closest ally." His hand cupped her cheek, grounding her. "He trusted me with everything... including you. He made me promise that if anything ever happened to him—I'd protect you."
Maria didn't respond right away.
She just sat there, lips parted slightly, eyes wide — glassy with confusion and disbelief. The weight of his words hung heavy in the quiet car. Mafia. Fortune. Empire.
Her?
Her voice finally broke through the silence, barely above a whisper. "Wait... so... you're telling me my father was the head of the mafia?"
Felix gave a slow nod. "Yeah. He was the boss. The Don. The man everyone in this city answered to."
She blinked, struggling to reconcile the man she'd grown up with — soft-spoken, meticulous, always buried in paperwork — with the image Felix was painting.
"But... he was just an accountant. I mean—he loved numbers. On weekends he wore socks with sandals and grilled chicken. He looked like a nerd, Felix. A dad."
A small, sad smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "He was a dad. To you, he wanted to be nothing but that."
Maria's brow furrowed, the panic giving way to something deeper — betrayal, confusion. "And you...?"
Felix didn't flinch. "I run it now," he said simply. "After he died... I took the seat."
She stared at him, the truth setting in slowly, one brick at a time. "So you're the head now. Of all of it."
"Yes, princess," he said softly. "I'm the head now. Your father's empire... it's mine."
There was pride in his voice — but something heavier beneath it. Grief. Guilt.
He looked down at her, thumb brushing a tear from her cheek.
"And you?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "You're mine too. My responsibility. My girl."
He kissed the top of her head gently — the gesture more protective than possessive.
"And I'm not letting anything happen to you."
"I'm 28," Maria muttered, arms crossed. "An adult. You're like... what, 48? You can't just make me your responsibility. I'm not a child."
Felix chuckled softly at her pout, the corner of his mouth twitching despite the situation. He found her reaction oddly endearing — especially considering she'd just learned her entire life had been a lie.
"You're an adult, yeah. I get that. But you're also the heir to one of the most powerful mafia families in the city."
His voice dropped, more serious now. "You're a target. And you're innocent."
"Yeah, but—"
"No buts, princess." His tone firmed, though it stayed gentle. "You're coming home with me. You'll live at my mansion under full protection. My men will guard you 24/7. You'll be safe there."
He paused, watching her reaction as his voice softened again. "Safer than anywhere else."
Maria muttered under her breath, a little too loud to go unnoticed. "Oh yay. I'll be a prisoner."
Felix heard it and let out a low chuckle. "You won't be a prisoner," he said with a smirk. "You'll be living in luxury. You'll have your own wing of the house. Do whatever you want inside — but don't leave without telling me."
She looked away, jaw tense. The idea of needing permission to go out didn't sit well.
"Look at me," he said, voice calm but commanding.
Maria turned her head slowly, eyes still guarded.
"You can go out whenever you want. The mall. The park. Dinner with friends. I'm not chaining you up. But I need to know where you are. Not because I want to control you — but because if something happens, I need to be able to protect you."
She stared at him for a moment, then gave a slow, reluctant nod. "Fine."
A small smile touched his lips. "That's my good girl."
He leaned in and kissed her forehead, lingering there for just a moment before pulling back.
"I promise, I'm not trying to lock you away," he murmured. "But I will keep you safe."
Then, without another word, he pulled out his phone and sent a quick message.
The grand gates creaked open, revealing the sprawling mansion beyond. Servants stood ready, their eyes respectful and watchful. Felix stepped out first, turning to offer a steadying hand on her lower back. With a quiet strength in his voice, he said, "Welcome home, princess."
Maria lowered her gaze, unsure of what awaited inside — but knowing her life had just changed forever.