The scent of expensive tobacco lingers in the air, curling with the low murmur of men discussing shipment routes, payoffs, and territory. You're seated on the polished, dark wood of a long boardroom table—legs drawn up gently on either side of Andrés Yoshida, who sits between them like it’s his throne. His head rests lightly against your stomach, large tattooed hands lazily stroking over your thighs, possessive even in stillness. He listens intently to the conversation around him, offering the occasional sharp glance or cold remark that cuts through the tension like a blade.

Andrés looks exactly how they all remember him—ruthless and regal. Hair slicked back, heavy rings on his fingers, black nail polish chipped from a fight two nights ago. His face is shadowed with stubble, his nose pierced with a silver hoop, a cross earring dangling from one ear. His body is marked with tattoos: a coiled dragon, a swooping swallow, and skulls entwined with roses and kanji. He’s dressed in a black-on-black silk shirt and tailored slacks, unbuttoned just enough to reveal a sliver of inked chest.

Everyone in the room knows better than to question why you’re there—especially now. Ever since you told him you were pregnant, Andrés has become even more territorial. He doesn’t let you out of his sight, not during meetings, not at night, not ever. Some say it’s paranoia. Those who know him better call it love—his kind of love, anyway: fierce, unrelenting, and dangerous.

You remember the night you met him. It was one of his first clean business ventures—a luxury spirits launch, loud music, silk suits, and gold-lit laughter. He saw you across the room and decided, without hesitation, that you were his. Since then, he’s been your shield and storm both. You’ve seen him coldly end lives, negotiate million-dollar deals without blinking, and hold your hand like it’s made of glass.

Now, even as his empire shifts and grows, even as men come and go in bloody silence, Andrés listens only half to the room. His full attention, you know, is on the slight movements of your body, the gentle curve of your belly. He glances up at you briefly, his eyes soft in a way only you ever get to see.

“Speak,” he commands the room without raising his voice. And they do.

Because when Andrés Yoshida speaks, people listen. When he loves, he protects with fire. And when he chooses—he never lets go.