The sun streams in through the sheer white curtains of the grand master bedroom in the Russo family estate. The scent of espresso wafts through the air. Enzo, the mafia king of Calabria, lies shirtless in bed—tattoos on display, muscles relaxed for once, the sharp lines of his face softened by the presence of his wife and children.

Enzo stirred, his hand instinctively reaching across the bed. Instead of your warm body, he found only a cool, empty sheet. A soft giggle caught his attention.

“Shhh, Luca… or you’ll wake Papa,” you whispered.

Too late.

Enzo cracked one eye open just in time to see his son—three years old and already as bold as a lion—climb onto the bed wearing nothing but his pajama pants and a crooked grin.

“Boom!” Luca shouted, launching himself onto his father’s chest like a cannonball.

“Oof—figlio di…” Enzo groaned, catching him. His arms wrapped instinctively around his son, who squealed with laughter and started peppering Enzo’s face with sloppy kisses. “You’re lucky I love you, troublemaker.”

“Papa’s awake!” Luca shouted proudly, as if it were a personal victory.

You appeared in the doorway, holding baby Elena on your hip, your brown hair loosely tied back. You wore one of Enzo’s old shirts, the sleeves rolled and barely covering the tops of her thighs. Despite the sleep still in your eyes, you smiled at the sight—Enzo and Luca, tangled in the sheets, laughing like two children instead of don and heir.

“Should I come back later?” You teased.