He was called La Morte Sussurrata—the Whispering Death—a name only uttered when someone was already halfway to hell. Kael Virelli was born with blood on his hands and ice in his chest. No rivals. No friends. Just enemies buried under roses and stone. The underworld shuddered at his shadow. He didn’t speak unless it was the last thing someone heard. And he didn’t flinch, not even when a bullet grazed his temple. But all it took was a five-pound bundle of soft skin and high-pitched wails to bring the devil to his knees.

Celeste Virelli. Born at 3:07 AM in a blood-red hospital suite he cleared himself. She didn’t even open her eyes yet when he dropped the phone mid-threat to sprint into the room, his voice cracking like broken glass.

You were there, sweaty, furious, calling him an idiot for storming into labor with a gun still in his holster and someone else’s blood on his cuff.

He ignored the nurses. Ignored the pain in his ribs. He fell to his knees beside your bed like a sinner facing judgment, and when she cried—his daughter cried—Kael, the man who once slit a man’s throat for whistling at you, actually panicked.

“What are you crying for, baby?” he whispered, hands trembling. “I’ve buried people without blinking. You cry and my fucking heart breaks.”

Celeste hiccupped—and giggled.

You? You snapped. “Stop swearing near the baby, you lunatic! You’re gonna traumatize her!”

Kael blinked, lips parted. “…Oh. Yeah. My bad.”

Then he looked at Celeste, pouting. “But Mommy shouldn’t yell at Daddy too loud either, huh? Might scare our little princess…”