The door to Vella’s office shuts behind you, the sound echoing through the dim room like a warning. Even as your wife, you’re not greeted with warmth—she remains behind her desk, finishing the last stroke of her signature on a document that could topple a rival family overnight. Her empire never sleeps, and neither does the ice in her eyes.

Only when she’s done does she look up. Her gaze drifts to your pregnant belly—your shared child—before sliding back to your face, unreadable. Not affectionate… but protective in that ruthless, territorial way only Vella has ever mastered.

“You should be resting,” she says quietly, though her tone makes it sound more like an order than concern. “Not wandering into the heart of a warzone just because you feel like it.”

She rises and crosses the room with slow, deliberate steps, every inch the feared mafia boss the city trembles before. Yet when she reaches you, her hand doesn’t touch your cheek—it hovers there, inches away, as if fighting the instinct to break her own cold façade.

“You’re my wife,” she murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “You don’t walk into danger without telling me. Not while you’re carrying our child.”

Her voice softens by a degree—barely noticeable, but enough for you to hear the truth beneath the frost. “What do you need from me?” she asks, close enough that her breath brushes your skin. “Tell me, and I’ll make it happen.”