The man at the table

The man at the table

Dante's POV

The soft knocking on the door dragged me out of my thoughts.
It was faint at first, hesitant, as if whoever stood behind the door was unsure whether to interrupt or walk away.

I didn’t respond. I just sat there, fingers resting on the edge of my desk, eyes fixed on the city stretched beyond the glass wall of my office. The skyline blinked with tired lights. LasVegas had a strange way of pretending to be alive even when everything inside it was dead.

The knock came again, this time firmer.

I sighed and turned toward the door. “Come in,” I said.

The door creaked open, and Maria stepped inside. Her heels clicked softly against the tiled floor. She was holding a tray with a cup of steaming coffee, her blouse slightly unbuttoned, showing more skin than I’d ever asked to see.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she said with a small, practiced smile. “You’ve been in here all morning. I thought you might need this.”

I glanced at her,at the way her hair fell across her shoulder, at the way her eyes lingered on me a little too long. She placed the cup on my desk, her perfume leaving a faint, sweet trail in the air.

“How’s your day going?” she asked. Her tone was polite, but her body said otherwise.

“Busy,” I replied flatly. “You can leave.”

Her smile faltered, just a little. “Of course, sir.”

She turned to go, disappointment hanging around her. But before she reached the door, I called her name.

She paused, looked over her shoulder, a flicker of hope flashing across her face.

“Maria,” I said quietly. “If you ever walk into my office dressed like that again, I’ll have your employment terminated before you can blink. Understood?”

The hope vanished. Her cheeks flushed, and she nodded quickly. “Understood, sir.”

“Good.”

She left without another word, shutting the door gently behind her.

I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples. The scent of her perfume still lingered, sharp and heavy. It irritated me,not because of her, but because everything lately seemed to irritate me.

Everything that reminded me of her.

Catherina.

The thought of her name alone made my chest tighten. I hated how easily she occupied my mind. I hated how the smallest memory,her laugh, the look in her eyes when she challenged me — could throw me off balance.

When I finally glanced at the clock, the day had slipped away.

I gathered the scattered files on my desk and shoved them into my briefcase. Maria was gone; the office was silent except for the hum of the air conditioner. I needed to leave before my thoughts ate me alive again.

By the time I got home, the sky was bruised with evening.

The lights from the mansion spilled across the driveway. The moment I stepped inside, voices floated from the dining area — light conversation, a hint of laughter.

I froze when I saw him.

Leonardo.

He was sitting at my table.Catherina sat across from him, Lucia beside her, all three of them pretending it was normal.

The sound of my shoes against the marble made them look up. Leonardo rose immediately, a polite smile on his face.

“Good evening, sir,” he said, stretching out his hand.

I stared at it, the roughness, the quiet confidence — before meeting his eyes. Then I looked away. “Driver’s license.”

He blinked. “Sir?”

“Your driver’s license,” I repeated, my voice cold.

He hesitated, then reached into his pocket and handed it to me. The smile never left his face.

I studied it for a moment, then looked up again. “You were paid for saving her life. You should have taken the money and stayed gone.”

Lucia frowned. “Dante,” she murmured softly, “please, be kind.”

I ignored her. “Follow me,” I said, motioning for Leonardo to come.

He did, wordlessly.

We walked down the hall to my study. The air felt heavier there, calmer. I set my briefcase on the table and turned to face him.

“Why are you here?” I asked. “You could’ve taken the money and disappeared. I can even double it if you walk out that door and never look back.”

Leonardo’s lips curved faintly. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t need your money. I need a job.”

I stared at him, at the steady calm in his tone, at the way his eyes didn’t flinch.

“You need a job,” I repeated slowly, almost tasting the words. “In my house?”

He nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

Something in me snapped,not loudly, not visibly, but deep inside.

I took a step closer. “If you hurt anyone here,” I said quietly, “if you so much as look at the family the wrong way, I’ll make sure you regret ever breathing near this family.”

His gaze didn’t falter. “Understood.”

He turned and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
I stood there, fists clenched, heart pounding.

There was something about his confidence that unsettled me.Everyone feared me — my board members, my employees, even Lucia, at times. But not him.

And that alone unnerved me.

When I walked out of the study, the murmur of voices drifted down the hallway.
Soft laughter. Catherina’s laughter.

It came from the dining room — light, unguarded, the kind of sound that shouldn’t belong in a house like this.

I slowed when I reached the doorway. She was seated at the table beside Leonardo, their heads slightly bent toward each other. Something about the sight twisted in my chest. They were laughing at something, I didn’t care what. Her face was lit up, the corners of her eyes crinkling when she smiled.

Then her gaze found mine.

For a brief second, the world stilled.
Her laughter died on her lips, and something unreadable flickered across her face, guilt, maybe, or surprise.

I looked away first.

“You’re hired,” I said quietly, my voice cutting through the air like a blade.

Leonardo looked up, startled. “Sir?”

“I said you’re hired.”

He blinked once, then smiled — that easy, irritatingly genuine smile of his. “Thank you, sir. I won’t disappoint you.”

I didn’t respond. I just turned away and took my seat at the head of the table.

Dinner began in silence. The clinking of forks against plates filled the air. Lucia tried to start a few harmless conversations — something about the garden, about the board of charity women she’d met that morning — but my attention was elsewhere.

Leonardo cleared his throat once, perhaps trying to speak, but one look from me was enough. My glare pinned him where he sat, and he swallowed whatever words he had.

The rest of the meal was uneventful. The food might as well have been cardboard. I pushed it around my plate, not eating much.

When I finally rose from my seat, Lucia’s voice followed softly. “Dante, what’s wrong? The food not good? I can tell the maids to—”

“It’s fine,” I said, cutting her off. “I’ve had my fill.”

And without another word, I walked away.

In our bedroom, Lucia followed me in a few minutes later. She shut the door behind her quietly, the soft click of the latch echoing in the silence.

“You’re upset,” she said, her tone gentle.

“I’m not.”

She smiled faintly, walking toward me. “I’ve known you long enough to know when something’s bothering you.”

I almost laughed at that.
The truth was, she didn’t know me at all — not the parts that mattered.

Lucia reached up and stroked my beard. I hated that gesture. It made me feel like some kind of pet she was trying to soothe. But I kept still, letting her believe it helped.

“I don’t trust that boy,” I said finally.

Her lips curved in amusement. “You don’t trust anyone, Dante.”

She was teasing, light-hearted, but it only deepened the weight in my chest.

Lucia sighed softly and moved toward the bed, lowering her head onto my thigh. Within minutes, her breathing steadied, the soft rhythm of her sleep filling the room.

I sat there, motionless, staring into nothing. The sound of her gentle snoring blended with the faint hum of the air conditioner.

Then I heard the small grumble from her stomach.

I exhaled and carefully lifted her head off me, resting it on a pillow. She didn’t stir.
In the kitchen, the light was dim — only the glow of the counter lamp cutting through the darkness. I opened the bread tin, pulled out two slices, and set them into the toaster.

The smell of burnt edges filled the air before I even realized I’d overdone it.

“Damn it,” I muttered, waving a hand through the smoke.

I nearly choked on the haze as I pried the bread out. The edges were black.Still, I sat down, scraping the burnt sides with a butter knife before spreading a thin layer of butter on what was left.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Then I heard her footsteps.

Catherina.

She appeared at the base of the staircase, wearing a loose shirt, her hair messy, eyes still soft with sleep. She paused when she saw me.

“I didn’t know you were still awake,” she said.

“Couldn’t sleep.” My tone was flat.

She smiled faintly. “Neither could I. I wanted to thank you… for hiring him.”

I didn’t look up. “There’s no need for that.”

She hesitated, then stepped closer. “You have something on your lips.”

I frowned, wiping at my mouth with my thumb. “Gone?”

She shook her head. “No.”

She reached for a napkin, her movements slow, cautious. As she drew nearer, I could hear my own heartbeat — loud, uneven. The air between us grew thick. Her scent was faint, familiar, maddening.

When her hand lifted, I caught her wrist halfway.

“That’s enough,” I said quietly. My voice didn’t sound like my own.

She blinked, surprised.

“I’ll wash it off,” I added, standing abruptly. “I need to take a bath.”

Before she could speak, I walked out — past her,
past the kitchen, out of sight.

Once I was alone, I exhaled sharply, leaning against the wall. My hands trembled slightly.

Whatever this was, this thing between us, it had to end before it consumed me.