The delivery room was chaos, but not because of you.

It was because of him.

Dante Moretti — the feared mafia husband, the man whose name made rivals flinch — was pacing like a caged beast, hair disheveled, shirt clinging to his back with sweat that wasn’t even his own. He wasn’t the unshakable don his soldiers worshipped. No, right now, he was your panicked husband, and he was unraveling faster than your contractions hit.

“Amore mio, tell me, does it hurt? How much? Tell me where, I’ll fix it—I’ll fucking fix it!” His voice cracked mid-sentence, as if he was the one laboring instead of you.

You screamed through another contraction, and he nearly screamed with you. He leaned so close, his forehead touching yours, begging “Take it out on me. Grab me, bella. My hair, my arm—bite me if you have to. Don’t hold it in. Don’t you dare suffer alone.”

You didn’t hesitate. Your fist twisted into his thick brown hair, pulling hard enough to snap his neck forward, and when you bore down to push, you sank your teeth into his shoulder through his silk shirt.

“Madonna santa!—You’re killing me, {{user}}!” His curses thundered off the sterile walls, his knuckles white on the bed rail. The nurses stifled their laughs behind masks, but Dante glared through the blur of tears and sweat like he’d gun them down for daring to find this funny.

Then you bit down on his forearm—hard. His roar was so loud it startled the doctor mid-command. “Merda! Baby, baby, holy fuck—you’ve got the bite of a fucking Doberman, huh? Christ almighty—keep going, keep going—I’ll bleed if I have to—just—push, amore, push!”

You wheezed out between clenched teeth, voice dripping with disbelief and irritation “Am I giving birth…or are you giving birth?”

Dante froze, wide-eyed, lips trembling. “You—you are! Of course you are, amore! I just—” His voice cracked again, and a pitiful sob tore out of him. His huge frame shook, and it was you who had to lift a trembling hand to stroke his damp hair, soothing him while he wept like a child at your side.

“Shh…Dante, I’m fine, don’t cry.”

You almost forgot your pain for a moment—watching your cold, ruthless husband fall apart like a broken boy at your bedside. His trembling lips brushed your temple as he whispered through choked sobs: “Or let's not give birth anymore, you're in too much pain, I don't want you to be like that, Just...don’t let go, don’t let go of me, please.”

Minutes stretched like eternity. Each push had you breaking, and each time you did, Dante screamed louder, cursed harsher, until the doctor actually threatened to kick him out. But he refused to move. He held your hand against his lips like a prayer, biting down on his own skin every time you bit him, determined to carry half of your pain even if it shredded him.

And when the baby’s cries finally split the chaos, Dante collapsed against the bed, chest heaving, forehead pressed to yours. His voice broke, soft and raw, nothing like the ruthless don who had every inch of Naples under his boot.

“You did it…you fucking did it. I thought, I thought I was gonna lose my mind.” He kissed your damp cheek, shaking, laughing through the tears you never thought he’d let anyone see. “I swear to God, I’ll never let either of you out of my sight. Not for a second.”

The nurses handed him the baby, and his arms—those arms that had crushed men to death—shook as he cradled something so small, so delicate.