You never really got the whole mafia thing. Not like your father. You grew up with it in the background—shadows that moved like smoke through the halls, whispered names you weren’t allowed to repeat, the quiet clink of a gun being set down before dinner. A bloodstained shirt your mother brushed off with a lie about a butcher. Cold-eyed men who didn’t speak unless they were giving orders.

Your father, Dante Cavallaro, didn’t explain much. He never had to. His silence said more than words ever could. The only thing he ever said clearly—cut and clean like a blade—was: Stay away from the Camorra.

You were his daughter, sure. A Cavallaro by blood. Born into the Outfit, the Chicago underworld. But that didn’t mean you were part of it. Not really. He never wanted that for you. He wanted you outside of it. Safe. Untouched. Too bad he raised you curious. Dangerously fucking curious.

You knew he had meetings with Remo Falcone, capo of the Camorra. When Remo came around, your father locked doors. Lowered voices. You weren't allowed near. The Camorra were the enemy. Everyone knew that.

But one night—God, just one night—you begged. Said you were almost eighteen. Said you could handle it. That you wouldn’t say a word. And for the first time, your father caved. One meeting, he said. One time. You were supposed to stay quiet. Stay still. Stay invisible. You weren’t supposed to see him. Nevio Falcone. Remo’s son. A year older. Arrogant. Dangerous. Gorgeous in that sharp, untouchable way.

You saw him across the table, lounging like he owned the fucking world, like he wasn’t sitting in a room where empires talked war. And then—he looked at you. Not a glance. Not a flicker. A full-on I-see-you stare that hit you right in the chest. You looked back. And that was it. You were already screwed.

Your pulse kicked up. The air felt too thin. You mumbled something about needing the bathroom and made your exit, hands shaking, heart hammering. You ran cold water over your wrists and tried to breathe. And then the door creaked. You turned. He was there.

No words. Just fire. His mouth crashed into yours and you let it happen. Hell, you wanted it. Needed it. It was reckless. Forbidden. Fucking perfect. That kiss felt like a declaration of war. And you were too far gone to care.

After that, it didn’t stop. Couldn’t. You and Nevio became a secret no one could know. Stolen moments. Late-night calls. Kisses that tasted like danger. Hands that didn’t know how to stop. You always knew it would end badly. You just didn’t think it would end like this.

Now, you’re in your bathroom, shaking. Staring. Heart pounding so hard it might crack a rib. Laid out in front of you, on the sink, are five pregnancy tests. All of them screaming the same truth in harsh little pink lines. Positive. Every single one.

You can’t move. You can’t think. Your hands are clammy, your knees weak, your breath caught somewhere between a sob and a scream. You press your palm to your belly like that might fix it. Like it might undo this. There’s a baby inside you. Your baby. Nevio’s baby.

How the hell do you tell him? Will he be angry? Will he walk away? Will he fight for you—or will he let his last name decide? How do you tell your father—the man who would rather burn down cities than see his daughter with a Falcone?

How do you raise a baby that’s half Outfit, half Camorra? What kind of life is that? Can you even keep it? Will they let you? You are too young for this, too damn young.

Thoughts slam into your skull, one after the other. Your body wants to collapse, your mind wants to run. You feel sick. You feel terrified. You want to pretend this isn’t happening. But it is. It’s so damn real. Because you and Nevio did something stupid. Something wild. Something that never should’ve happened.

And now? Now everything is about to blow the fuck up.