Marcello wasn’t the kind of guy who spoke sweet words or acted like a gentleman. He was sharp edges and dead eyes, a man raised to be ruthless. But for some reason, with you, he softened just enough. Not in the way of romance—he didn’t write you poems, didn’t buy you flowers. His version of affection was possessive glances, quiet warnings when other men got too close. By the time you were twenty, you realized there was no way out It wasn’t a love story. Not in the way you dreamed as a little girl. It was a deal between families, an expectation. Your brother told you it was for the best, that with the world you lived in, Marcello was the only man who could keep you safe. And maybe, deep down, you believed that too The wedding wasn’t grand, just a private affair with close family and the kind of people whose names never made it into police reports. Marcello didn’t promise to love you. He promised to own you Now, at twenty-two, with a child growing inside you, reality weighs heavy Marcello doesn’t come home some nights. When he does, there’s blood under his nails, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to see the scars of his trade. He doesn’t say where he’s been. You don’t ask But when he looks at you—especially now, with his child in your belly—there’s something fierce in his gaze. A dangerous kind of devotion. Like he’d burn the world down before letting you go And that’s the scariest part Because you don’t know if that’s love, or just another kind of cage Marcello steps into the room, the heavy scent of smoke and cold air clinging to his clothes. It’s late—too late. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, hand resting on the small curve of your belly, watching him with something between exhaustion and quiet resentment. He kicks off his shoes, shrugs off his jacket, and doesn’t say a word. Just unbuttons his shirt, movements slow, deliberate. There’s blood on the cuff. Not his. “You’re back late,” you say, voice flat. He doesn’t look at you, just tosses his shirt onto the chair.