The next morning, Kyan shuffled into the kitchen with one eye half-shut and his hair sticking in every direction like he'd fought a hurricane in his sleep—and lost.
Those three bullies didn't just take his bed, they took his peace, his sleep, and even his blanket halfway through the night. One of them snored like a chainsaw. The other talked in his sleep. And the third? Kept humming a creepy lullaby.
He had bags under his eyes, but still, he was up early, slicing tomatoes and trying to pretend he wasn't silently crying inside.
Then came the sound of heels—no, clogs—clacking into the kitchen.
Kyan turned and saw the main kitchen door swing open. In walked Madam Tasha, the head cook. She was wearing her usual apron, tied tight like it held all her secrets, but what made Kyan freeze wasn't her—it was the tall, unfairly gorgeous man walking in behind her.
He was stupidly pretty.
Tall, lean, with silky black hair swept back, and a beauty mark under one eye. He had that effortless elegance that made you wonder if he was in the wrong building. Or the wrong universe.
"Morning, sleepy," Madam Tasha chirped, eyeing Kyan's puffed face.
"I'm awake," Kyan croaked.
"Mm-hmm." She gestured to the stranger beside her. "This is Santi Cruz—your new assistant in the kitchen."
Kyan blinked. "He's a chef?"
"I can hold a knife," Santi said with a soft smile. His voice was smooth. Too smooth. Like melted chocolate and broken promises.
Kyan stared, then muttered, "You look like you model for perfume ads, not cut onions."
Santi chuckled. "I do both."
Madam Tasha smacked Kyan's back lightly. "Show him around, teach him how things work. And no fainting. He's not a prince, just a Cruz."
Kyan wasn't sure if that made it better or worse.
Because the Cruz family… was dangerous, charming, and impossible to predict.
And now one of them was standing next to him, tying an apron like it was the cover of a magazine.
Kyan stood at the long kitchen counter, holding up a perfectly chopped onion. "See this? This is how you dice an onion. Not too thin, not too thick."
Santi barely glanced at it before picking up his knife. "Please. I too know how to cook," he said in his rich accent, flipping his hair back like this was a cooking show.
Kyan blinked. "You too know?"
"Yes," Santi smirked confidently. "I've cooked…eggs. Before."
Kyan side-eyed him. "Eggs."
"Scrambled. With… passion." Santi grinned and nearly cut his finger.
Kyan sighed and gently took the knife. "Okay, Santi Gordon Ramsay Cruz, let me show you again before you burn this whole house down."
They eventually got through breakfast, somehow. Santi mostly watched and stirred things like he was doing a performance, but Kyan didn't mind. The guy might've been dramatic, but he listened.
And then came the final moment: serving the food.
The long Luciano dining table was packed. From Raven—still glued to her phone—to the Don, who always looked like he wanted to stab someone just for breathing too loud.
But Santi wasn't looking at any of them.
The moment Nico walked in, Santi froze mid-step, holding a tray of mini croissants like he was presenting them to the gods.
Kyan watched him blink—once, twice, like a fan seeing their bias up close.
In Santi's head, it was chaos.
Oh my God. That's him. That's Nico. That's the king. The king king. The sinfully fine king. He even looks better in real life. WHAT is that jawline. Is that even legal? And why is he walking like he owns the oxygen too?? Damn.
Santi's hand trembled slightly.
Kyan whispered from the side, "Uh… you gonna put that tray down or are you about to propose to it?"
Santi blinked out of his trance and quickly placed the tray on the table.
But as Nico walked past them without a glance, Santi clutched his apron and whispered dramatically, "He smells expensive."
Kyan rolled his eyes. "You're not serious."
"I never was," Santi whispered, still staring.
Yup. This house just got a whole lot messier.
Santi stood by the kitchen door, pretending to adjust his apron, but his eyes were fixed—locked—on Nico Luciano at the head of the table.
The man was eating.
Just eating.
A slice of toast. A sip of black coffee. The slow, calculated way he wiped his mouth with the napkin.
And somehow?
It was the hottest thing Santi had ever seen.
He tilted his head slightly, biting his lower lip.
Damn. The way he eats is enough to turn me on. Is that weird? That's weird, right?
But there was just something about Nico's clean, quiet power. That sharp jawline flexing when he chewed. That cold, unreadable face like he wasn't even aware of how fine he looked.
Santi exhaled slowly, practically whispering to himself, "Jesus, Mary, and mafia men."
Kyan bumped into him with an empty tray. "Stop drooling before someone mops you off the floor."
"I'm not drooling," Santi whispered, still staring. "I'm…appreciating art."
Kyan gave him a look. "Well, appreciate it from the kitchen before the Don notices you're undressing his heir with your eyeballs."
But Santi was already in another world, chin resting on his hand.
Yeah… I could totally marry into this family.
He didn't even realize Nico's eyes briefly flicked up—catching the stare. But if Nico noticed, he said nothing. He simply sipped his coffee.
And somehow, that sip made Santi's knees weak.
Santi Cruz had spent years pretending he didn't remember every single thing about Nico Luciano.
The quiet glances during math class.
The day he got pushed into a locker and Nico pulled the bully off with one hand, only to say, "Don't touch what's mine."
He hadn't meant it like that. Of course not. Nico bullied him too. But somehow, Santi's heart never got the message. It only listened to the way Nico looked at him when no one was watching.
He had been the shy, lanky French nerd back then—the one everyone called soft. But he remembered the way Nico used to smirk when Santi would bite his lip nervously.
He remembered that voice too. Deep. Lazy. Dangerous.
"Don't look at me like that unless you're ready to deal with what comes next."
God. That voice.
After graduation, Santi had moved back to France. His family—the Cruz cartel—was quiet compared to the Lucianos, but they were old money. Deadly when crossed. Still, none of that meant anything when Nico haunted his dreams.
He worked on his body. His skills. His confidence.
He reinvented himself.
And now?
Now he was back.
Back with a plan.
Get close. Work in the kitchen. Start small. Get noticed. And maybe—just maybe—Nico would see him not as that quiet nerd anymore, but as someone who could finally handle him.
Someone worthy of that smirk. That voice.
That deep, sexy, arrogant voice that would one day whisper right into his ear, "Call me daddy."
Santi clenched his thighs under the counter, nearly dropping the wooden spoon he was stirring with.
Kyan looked over from the other side of the kitchen. "You good?"
Santi forced a smile, cheeks burning. "Yeah. Just… thinking."
Thinking of Nico.
Thinking of that dark bedroom.
Thinking of what it would feel like to finally hear that voice up close.
"Call me daddy…"
Santi nearly dropped the damn spoon again.
This was going to be harder than he thought.