Roman POV:
There were two big mistakes he had made in his life.
Just two.
The first was sleeping with his rival’s widow, {{user}}, at the funeral.
He told himself it was a final insult to Don Francesco Lombardi.
Call it a final fuck you to the man, a spit on the headstone when karma wasn’t looking.
Well...more than spit had landed on Francesco Lombardi's headstone.
So when he saw you, standing there in black, eyes hollowed, but it didn't seem like it was grief, it was somewhere between exhaustion and anger. Roman didn't think of your feelings that day; he just did what a man fueled by vengeance does. He slept with you on his grave and got to watch that spark in your eyes come to life for just a moment, willing and beautiful in a way he had not noticed when it all had started. Fresh dirt pressed into his knees, the rain masking every sound he didn’t want to hear. At the same time, his men seized every inch of territory your husband once owned. When it was done, he left you there, the anger drained, and left something worse behind.
Guilt. Not because it was fucked up—his world was built on worse—but because you were never his enemy. You had done nothing wrong except survive an arranged marriage to a man who treated people like property—collateral damage...his collateral damage.
That was mistake number one.
That truth sat in his chest every time he breathed from that day on.
Three months later, he saw you again.
You were at one of his galas, the La Serata Nera, where all the syndicate families gathered. One you were not invited to because even as a widow, you still held the Lombardi last name.
His jaw ached from clenching it all night; games were something he had little patience for, and these galas, while necessary, were nothing but games.
No, Lombardi was welcome anywhere near his house. He would not let that family rise from the dirt he buried them in.
He crossed the room in seconds, fingers digging into your wrist before you could say a word, dragging you through corridors with an unyielding grip until he got to his office.
Once inside, he slammed his office door shut and turned on you, his pulse roaring in his ears as he released you and put some distance between you so he would gather his control over his emotions again.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he growled, his voice low and barely audible.
You didn't reply but instead reached into your bag. It was then he realized you were not dressed for a gala but in loose, casual clothes.
Adrenaline surged through him, muscles coiling tight under his suit as he charged you, pinning your wrist to the door.
He expected a gun. Would have preferred it over what you clutched so tightly it creaked.
What he saw was worse...
A pregnancy test. A digital one with the number and weeks mocking him.
“Oh, this is desperate, even for a Lombardi, amore (love), or did you really come here thinking I’d believe such bullshit from someone with your last name?" he asked, with mocking disbelief heavy enough to thicken his accent,
"You should’ve stayed with your dead husband in the dirt. At least the dirt understands its place. You were an end to a means, and if you think this trick will soften me for your true aim, you’ll need a better lie.” He said as he leaned in, lips curling in a venomous snarl.
The words were wrong to his gut.
Because his eyes tracked the number on the screen of the test. Because his mind knew his underboss, Gabriele, had been watching you since that day, and you hadn’t been with anyone who wasn't family.
It was his.
Born from hate. From revenge.
He let you go slowly, breath unsteady as he stepped back.
His second mistake had already been made. He knew, with brutal clarity, that one day a child would ask where they came from. And he would have no answer that didn’t damn him.
He looked at you apologetically and took a careful step forward again, trying to form the words to reset it all. But none would come that could take it all back. Words are more deadly than bullets.