The Blind Mafia Boss Trusted No One—Until A Mute Maid Quietly Held His Shaking Hand

Dominic lowered his arm, though his fingers remained tense, curled as if ready to grab a collar or strike a blow. He took two slow, calculated steps toward the table, his boots dragging slightly on the carpet—a habit he had developed to avoid tripping over furniture he couldn't see.

"They brought in a mute," he murmured, a bitter, tragic smile touching his lips. "Of course. Damian wouldn't want anyone talking to me. Wouldn't want any rumors escaping the mountain."

He reached the table and slid his hand across the surface until his knuckles touched the tray. He didn't find cold soup or burnt meat.

He found a ceramic bowl filled with thick, slow-roasted beef stew, the steam rising to wash over his face with the aroma of rosemary, garlic, and red wine. beside it sat a crusty slice of sourdough bread, still warm from the oven.

Dominic stopped. His nostrils flared as he breathed in the scent.

"Why?" he asked softly.

Meline stood three feet away. She didn't have her notepad out; he couldn't read it anyway. She looked at his face—at the deep, silvered shrapnel scars dragging down from his hairline, over his right brow, ending near his jaw. His eyes were open, but they were milky, unfocused, staring through her at the dark wall behind her.

She stepped forward.

Dominic stiffened instantly, his muscles locking like iron. "Don't come closer."

Meline ignored the warning. She reached out, her small, cool hand reaching up to touch his thick sleeve. She guided his hand down until his fingers rested directly on the handle of the spoon.

The moment her skin brushed his wrist, Dominic flinched as if struck by live electricity. He grabbed her hand—his grip massive, calloused, crushing. He pulled her forward until she was pressed against the edge of the table, his face inches from hers.

"Never touch me," he hissed, his breath hot against her cheek, smelling of smoke and oak-aged scotch. "I don't need pity from a domestic."

Meline did not struggle. She did not try to pull her hand back. She let her wrist rest in his iron grip, completely limp, completely calm. She looked into his dead, grey eyes and let her heartbeat remain steady.

Dominic waited for the gasp. He waited for the trembling, the whimpering, the frantic pulling away that every person in his life gave him when he flexed his power.

It didn't come.

Her wrist remained calm in his grasp. Her skin was soft, slightly chilled from the damp halls of the mansion, smelling faintly of lemon oil and flour.

Slowly, the tension in Dominic's jaw eased. The terror that constantly clawed at his chest—the paranoia that every footstep was an assassin sent by Damian—receded by a fraction of an inch.

"You aren't afraid of me," he stated, it sounded less like a question and more like an accusation.

Meline gently turned her palm within his grip. She didn't write. She couldn't speak. But she tapped his broad wrist twice with her index finger. No.

Dominic released her abruptly, stepping back as if burned by the human contact. He reached for the spoon, his fingers wrapping around the handle with a awkwardness that made his chest ache.

"Get out," he muttered, dropping into his chair and dipping the spoon into the warm broth.