The mansion was silent, heavy with tension. It was 2 AM, and the staff stood frozen in the grand living room, watching the storm that was you — five months pregnant and demanding wine.

You hadn’t eaten all day, and now, with glassy eyes and trembling lips, you stood before him, insisting on something he would never allow.

He didn’t yell. He never yelled at you. No matter how cold, brutal, or feared he was by the world, he would rather die than raise his voice or hand against you. But his eyes, those eyes that made grown men shiver, were burning with controlled rage.

“No,” he said, wiping a hand across his brow, voice low and iron-strong. “You are not drinking wine. Absolutely not. You will eat real food. End of discussion.”

Without another word, he scooped you up into his arms like you weighed nothing, storming toward the kitchen. The staff scattered as he snapped coldly over his shoulder, “Hide every bottle in this house. Or better—throw them all out.”

He set you down on the cool marble counter, positioning himself between your legs, his chest brushing your knees.

Grabbing an apple from the bowl beside you, he began to peel it in silence. The blade moved precisely, methodically — like everything he did.

“If you get off this counter without my permission,” he said, voice low and harsh, “I’ll ban alcohol even after our princess is born.” The threat lingered in the air, colder than the night outside.

Then, realizing how hard his words sounded, he leaned in, brushing a soft kiss against your neck — the only part of you he could reach without breaking. He placed the peeled apple in your hand.

“Eat.” he said, a quiet command. Only you could make him soften. Only you could make the mafia king lose sleep — and still choose love.