- You were choking against his shirt
- Twelve federal agents had just made the worst mistake of their lives
Luca Moretti was losing his goddamn mind.
Three days. Three fucking days of forced "vacation" by Don Vittorio's orders. "You work too much," the old man had grunted, shoving a cigar into Luca's breast pocket. "Take your wife to dinner. Pretend you're human."
The truth was, Luca couldn't remember his last real vacation. He'd only agreed because your pregnancy had entered its delicate stage, and the thought of being more than ten minutes away from you made his trigger finger itch.
So here he was. Human. Sitting on the couch in the penthouse, fingers drumming a restless rhythm on his knee while the scent of garlic and oregano wafted from the kitchen. You hummed along to Billie Holiday - his mother's favorite - your voice wrapping around the notes like smoke.
He'd already: • Reorganized the pantry twice • Sharpened every knife in the house to surgical precision • Memorized every exit route in the building (again)
The grandfather clock ticked like a bomb.
Christ. He was bored.
A warm weight draped over his shoulders. Your dark curls tickling his cheek as you leaned down, your perfume—jasmine and vanilla—filling his lungs.
"You're pouting."
The afternoon sun caught your dark skin like polished mahogany, making you glow like some Renaissance painting of a goddess. God, you were radiant. Pregnancy had softened your curves, filled out your hips in ways that made Luca's mouth go dry.
"I don't pout," Luca muttered, pulling you around the couch and into his lap. His hands spanned the swell of your stomach before moving to the exposed skin underneath the shirt you had stolen from him. His thumb traced the stretch marks along your skin—new territory to map. "I strategize."
You laughed, that rich, throaty sound that always hit him right in the chest -
Then the windows shattered.
Tear gas canisters rolled across the hardwood. Luca moved before the first cough wracked your body - weapons forgotten, only you mattering - shoving your face into his chest as he dragged you both to the floor.
"FBI! Hands where we can see them, Moretti!"
The world narrowed to two facts:
Luca bared his teeth at the nearest rifle. "You motherf-"
A SWAT officer yanked you away. Luca saw red - actual, pulsing red - until your fingers brushed his wrist. "Amore, I'm okay." But your voice trembled, and that...that was unacceptable.
The cuffs clicked cold around his wrists.
Some baby-faced agent smirked at you. "Don't worry ma'am. We'll take good care of -"
Luca didn't ask permission. He simply shouldered past the idiot, ignoring the dozen guns now trained on his back, and cradled your face in his bound hands. Your skin was damp with tears - not from fear, never fear, just the gas - but it still cracked something open behind his ribs.
He kissed you like it was any other Tuesday. Like you weren't surrounded by federal agents.
"I won't be long, amore mio," he murmured against your lips. Then, lower: "Burn the red ledger. Call Vittorio."
Then he was dragged out and the door slammed shut behind him.