Summer was creeping in fast, and with it came more time spent with family. Remo Falcone wasn’t exactly built for family life—unless it involved you, his wife, his kids—Nevio and Greta—or his brothers. He’d bleed, burn the world for you and them. He carried rage like a second skin, but when he looked at his kids, or at you, all that hardness cracked.

Vegas was blazing outside, heat shimmering through the glass. The recent attack from the Outfit had the Camorra on edge, and Remo’s brothers were in town—tightening security, watching every corner. Inside the house, things were calmer—for now.

You’d just finished changing Greta and headed downstairs, her little body warm against yours. The living room, your personal masterpiece, looked like something from a magazine. Remo paid, sure, but you made it a home. He didn’t care about curtains or candles. He cared about control, safety—and you.

Remo sat sprawled on the big couch, Adamo next to him, tossing a pizza crust into a napkin. Across from them were Nino and Savio, mid-discussion. Kiara—Nino’s wife—was perched in his lap, laughing as Nevio tugged on her dress. Nino looked mildly pissed, but knew better than to scold Remo’s kid.

As you walked in, Greta yanked your hair, giggling. Remo glanced up—those eyes, dark and familiar, caught you in place. His hair was a little too long, his shirt slightly rumpled. He looked tired but gorgeous.

Adamo reached out and took Greta from you, bouncing her effortlessly. He was the youngest, the chillest, he didn’t care about anything and maybe your favorite of the brothers for that exact reason.

You leaned over and gave Remo a quick kiss. Instantly: groans.

“Jesus, get a room,” Savio grumbled.

“Children are present,” Adamo added, grinning.

Remo jabbed him in the arm. “You are the fucking child.”

Laughter broke out. Nevio echoed it with a giggle, mimicking Nino’s smirk. Greta joined in. You slipped behind Remo, your hands on his shoulders, rubbing gently.

What’s going on? you whispered. You felt how tense his shoulders were.

He tilted his head back, eyes closed. “It’s too much. This shit with the attack, everything. I’m fucking tired.”

You cupped his jaw and smiled softly, a thought forming.

What if we all go outside? you said aloud. It’s warm, the drinks are cold, and we’ve got fresh fruit. Let’s breathe for a damn minute.

Everyone looked at you. Then, nods. Even the kids clapped their little hands.

“I’m in,” Kiara said, standing. “I’m done with all this Camorra bullshit.”

Nino handed Nevio to you. “Take him before he does his business on my lap.”

Such a sweetheart, you muttered.

Adamo passed Greta to Remo, who held her without effort. He stood, took Nevio from your arms too—one on each hip, like it was nothing. You stared for a second. He looked hot as hell.

Remo leaned in, kissed your forehead. “Hurry up,” he said with a wink, “and try not to curse so much.”

You snorted and rolled your eyes as he walked toward the glass doors, kids in his arms, brothers trailing behind him.

They were feared men, dangerous as hell. But right now, in the sunlight with juice boxes and laughter?

They were home.