Names and Tiny Buttons

Balancing the heavy tray wasn’t exactly part of the job description.

But, well… there hadn’t exactly been a description, had there?

Just: cook the food. Get paid. Come back tomorrow.

And now here I was, shuffling nervously down a marble hallway like some lost intern delivering takeout.

The double doors to the office loomed ahead—tall, dark, and terrifying.

I paused, trying to will my heart to calm down.

It didn’t.

Okay, Marina. You can do this.

It’s just lunch. For two very intense men. Who may or may not be criminals. No big deal!

I knocked once—too softly.

No answer.

I knocked again—louder this time—and the door creaked open just a little, enough for me to peer inside.

They were both there.

The one with the dark glasses—seated behind the massive desk—and the other one, standing off to the side, his phone in one hand, a scowl on his face like it was permanently carved there.

Both of them turned toward me at the same time.

It was… unnerving.

Like two predators suddenly noticing a rabbit had wandered into their den.

I cleared my throat and took a tiny step inside.

“Um… lunch,” I said, and instantly wanted to smack myself.

Wow, brilliant. So eloquent, Marina.

For a second, no one said anything.

Just heavy silence, thick enough to choke on.

Then the tall one—cold and sharp—sighed like I was the most exhausting creature on earth.

“Next time,” he said, voice low and clipped, “press the small button next to the kitchen door. It alerts us when you’re done.”

I blinked.

“Button?”

“Tiny. Black. Next to the panel. Try using your eyes next time.”

Ouch.

Okay. Rude.

I nodded quickly, setting the tray down on the low table near the desk, trying not to let my hands shake.

“Sorry, I—I didn’t know. It’s my first—”

“Just press the button next time,” he cut me off, already turning away, thumbing through his phone like I was beneath his notice.

I bit the inside of my cheek, cheeks burning.

And I could’ve left it there.

I should’ve left it there.

But instead—because apparently my mouth worked faster than my brain—I blurted out:

“Can I… um… can I know your names?”

Dead silence.

Both of them turned toward me again.

The one in the glasses tilted his head slightly, like he was amused.

The cold one? He just looked like he wanted to throw me out the window.

“You’ve been here two days and you didn’t ask before?” the cold one said, voice flat.

His accent curled around the words—smooth but sharp, like silk hiding a knife.

I swallowed hard.

“Well, no one told me and it feels weird calling you ‘uh… sir? Or boss? Or—’”

“Domenico,” the one behind the desk said suddenly, cutting through my rambling.

His voice was softer, deeper.

Not warm exactly… but not cruel either.

“My name is Domenico.”

I blinked.

“Oh. Okay. Nice to—”

“Alessandro,” the cold one muttered, clearly annoyed. “Now you know. Great. Goodbye.”

I opened my mouth.

Closed it again.

Decided that, yeah, goodbye sounded like an excellent idea.

“Right. Um. Enjoy your lunch!”

I practically bolted out of the room, cheeks on fire, heart racing.

The moment the door closed behind me, I let out a long, shaky breath.

Names.

I got their names. 

Small victory?

Maybe.

Even if it felt like I’d just survived some kind of verbal firing squad.

And next time?

I will absolutely press that damn button.

Domenico

The door clicked shut behind her, and for a moment, silence settled in the office again.

The kind of silence that wrapped around my ears like a thick blanket.

But even in the dark behind my glasses, I could feel the little storm she’d left behind.

Alessandro made a disgusted sound in his throat.

“Brava,” he muttered, already reaching for the pasta. “She thinks this is some kind of restaurant.”

I huffed a laugh.

Couldn’t help it.

The sound was soft, but it echoed anyway in the high ceilings of this cursed office.

“You didn’t have to be so rude, fratello,” I said, tilting my head toward the sound of the fork scraping against porcelain. “She’s no threat.”

“She’s a stranger inside our walls,” Alessandro snapped, voice low but edged like broken glass. “And she asks questions she doesn’t need answers to. Names. Who the hell cares about names?”

“Apparently, she does,” I murmured, lips twitching upward. “A little brave, don’t you think?”

I could feel my brother’s glare slicing through the space between us, even if I couldn’t see it.

It was as sharp as ever.

Predictable.

Like everything about Alessandro — precise, cold, efficient.

The perfect soldier.

But sometimes so damn humorless it made my head hurt.

“She’s soft,” he muttered, chewing through the next bite. “Soft people don’t survive around men like us.”

“And yet,” I drawled, leaning back in my chair, “she’s still here. Day two. And she cooks well. You’re eating it fast enough.”

Alessandro went quiet for half a beat.

Then “Sauce is decent.”

Which, in his language, meant very good.

I smiled to myself.

Small victories.

Even in this life we’d built out of blood and diamond dust.

My fingers tapped lightly against the desk, the faint vibrations guiding me more than the sounds.

I didn’t need to see to know where everything was.

I didn’t need to see to know my brother was already shifting back into business mode.

“Shipment leaves Morocco next week,” Alessandro said, voice hardening as he switched gears, all traces of our cook gone from his mind. “We need to lock down the Antwerp route before Mirek makes his move. If he gets there first—”

“He won’t,” I cut in smoothly. “I already spoke to our contact in Belgium. The warehouse is secured. The ports are watched.”

“And the guns?”

“Taken care of. The buyers in Marseille are ready. They’ll move once we confirm delivery.”

Alessandro exhaled through his nose — the closest thing he ever got to relief.

“Good. One less thing to babysit.”

The clatter of his fork hitting the plate told me he was done eating.

Fast. Efficient.

Like everything he did.

“But,” he added, voice dropping back into that dangerous low hum, “we need to tighten the inside. No more strangers, Domenico. I don’t care how harmless the girl looks. The fewer people know about this operation, the better.”

I gave a soft chuckle again, letting it rumble in my chest.

“Relax, fratello. She’s not our enemy.”

“Yet,” Alessandro muttered darkly. “Trust no one outside this family. You taught me that.”

I smiled, but this time, it was thinner.

Colder.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

Even soft little cooks with shy eyes and brave mouths could be dangerous… if you weren’t careful.

“Press the button next time,” Alessandro repeated under his breath, like a curse.

And then — just like that — the air shifted again.

From lunch.

To business.

To blood.

As it always did.