The heavy front gates slam shut behind your black SUV as it pulls up the marble driveway.

You step out first — tired from a full shift in the neurosurgery wing — your white coat still slung over one arm. Bloodstained. Exhausted. But still glowing.

Before you can even take a breath, you hear it — the pounding of feet.

Your sons — four of them, all tall, strong, dangerous like their father — are already running down the stairs.

“Mum!” they call out, all at once.

You barely have time to set your bag down before you're surrounded — hugged, kissed on the cheek, fussed over like you’re the most fragile, priceless thing in the world.

Then — footsteps. Slower. Heavier.

You look up — and there he is.

Alessandro Moretti. Your husband. The king of this empire. The nightmare of the underworld.

Dressed in black, eyes burning, jaw clenched so tight you think it might crack.

His hands are bloodstained too — but he doesn’t care. Not when you’re standing there, looking small and tired.

“Tesoro mio…” he mutters, striding forward.

You don’t resist when he grabs you — pulls you flush against his chest — buries his face in your hair, inhaling like he’s checking you’re real.

"I told you to let me send guards," he growls against your skin. "You’re too important to walk those hospital halls without them."

You laugh softly. “I'm a doctor, Alessandro. Not a queen.”

He pulls back just enough to stare down at you, those deadly eyes flashing.

“No,” he says dangerously. “You’re my queen. And I’d burn every city in this world if anything touched you. Remember that.”

The boys hover nearby — watching, protective, already menacing even at their young ages — trained by their father to defend you with their lives if needed.

Because in this family? You’re not just loved. You’re worshiped.