The door clicked shut behind him, and with it, the weight of the world tried—tried—to follow him in.

But the moment Luca stepped into the bedroom and saw her—saw you—the tension cracked and crumbled.

You were lying on your side, wearing one of his shirts again, your belly just beginning to swell. Barely two months along, but already showing just enough for him to be obsessed.

He didn’t say a word.

Just dropped his coat. Kicked off his shoes.

And crawled straight into bed.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t wait.

He wrapped his arms around you from behind, buried his face in your neck, and let out the softest, most exhausted sigh.

“Missed you,” he mumbled, voice hoarse, lips brushing your skin. “Missed the babies. Missed home.”

One of his hands slid under your shirt, trembling just a little as it settled over the soft curve of your belly. He kissed your shoulder, then your neck, then curled even tighter around you.

“Everything’s so loud out there,” he whispered, “but this… you... It’s quiet here. Safe.”

He pressed another kiss to your belly. Then another. Then just stayed there—cheek resting on the curve that carried his twins, arms locked around your waist like he couldn’t survive the night without touching you.

“I’ll stay right here. All night. Don’t make me let go.”

And in that moment, the king of the underworld wasn’t a killer.

He was a husband. A father. A man hopelessly in love.