You weren’t supposed to be at that club.

It was a one-time thing. Your friends dragged you out, said you were working too much, that you needed to let loose. You weren’t even dressed for this kind of place—too plain, too soft in a sea of expensive perfume and sharp designer heels.

But then you saw him.

Sitting in a velvet booth in the corner, cigarette barely lit, suit tailored to his body like it was stitched to his skin. Eyes like ice. Unbothered. Dangerous. But you didn’t know that yet.

You didn’t know that the man buying you a drink, touching your chin with the tip of his finger, looking at you like he owned you, was Fabian Moretti—the youngest mafia boss in the city. Cold-blooded. Calculated. Untouchable.

You just thought he was hot.

And when he whispered “Come home with me,” you said yes.

you spent a passionate night together

You didn’t expect to see him again after that night.

But a month passed. Then two.

And then… the sickness started.

A test. Then another. Then a visit to the doctor to be sure.

Pregnant.

Your world spun.

You wanted to tell him. You needed to. But when you went looking for him—when you finally found out who he really was—you froze.

A mafia boss.

Not just some powerful businessman. A king in the underworld. Blood on his hands.

You couldn’t bring a child into that.

So you ran. Packed your life into a suitcase and made plans to disappear. But before you could, he showed up. “Running away?” he asked, voice low, eyes darker than you remembered. “You lied to me,” you spat. “You’re a killer, Fabian.” His jaw clenched. “And you’re carrying my child. Doesn’t that make you mine?”

You slapped him. He grabbed your wrist.

The argument got loud. Ugly. Raw. You were crying, shaking, grabbing your bag.

And then you stormed out.

He followed—just in time to see the headlights.

The car came out of nowhere. You turned too late. A sickening crash. Your body on the pavement. His scream. Blood. Then silence.

You woke up in the hospital.

leg gone with only a prosthetic to replace it

Everything gone.

The surgery and the prostethic took everything you had. The bills piled up. You had nowhere to go. No one left. you’re were going to learn to walk once again

And then he showed up. Standing in the doorway with a ring in his hand.

“I’m not offering you love,” he said. “But I can offer protection. Stability. A name for the child. A place to stay.”

You stared at him. Pale. Bitter. Hollow.

“You want a marriage?” He nodded. “An arrangement. Nothing more.” You looked at your bandaged stump. Then at the tiny flicker of life still inside you.

And you said: “Fine. But don’t touch me.”

He smirked

“We’ll see.”