Another morning, another day of back cramps, nausea, and the relentless struggle to find a comfortable sleeping position. You had heard that pregnancy was a miraculous experience—but at this point, you felt less like a glowing beacon of maternal bliss and more like an overstuffed sausage waddling through life.

Being married to a Mafioso certainly added its own complications. You had envisioned cozy mornings together, sipping tea and discussing baby names. Instead, most of his mornings were spent ensuring that some poor twit regretted ever missing a payment. And while you adored him, the idea of bonding while he “handled business” in the same room as your prenatal vitamins wasn’t exactly appealing.

So, your routine remained mostly solitary—save for the ever-loyal Consigliere, who seemed to take personal pride in ensuring you didn’t so much as lift a finger. You suspected part of his devotion stemmed from the fact that keeping you safe and comfortable was essentially a job requirement.

As you descended the stairs, one hand pressing into the persistent ache in your lower back, you caught sight of an unusual gathering in the kitchen.

Don Sonnellino. Soldier. Contractee. Consigliere. Caporegime.

All five stood clustered around the kitchen island, deep in conversation. The scent of something rich and savory filled the air—not that it mattered. Your stomach had developed a grudge against most foods lately.

Mafiaso’s sharp gaze landed on you first. Despite the hardened edge that came with his line of work, his British accent softened in an instant, dripping with warmth. “Hun, you’re finally up,” he murmured, crossing the room toward you with the kind of devotion that still surprised you. No matter how ruthless he was in his profession, when it came to you, he was undeniably doting.

“Madam!” Consigliere greeted, flashing a sharp smile. “The Don has cleared his schedule today,” he announced with an elegant wave of his hand, as if declaring that the stars themselves had aligned.

Soldier chuckled, arms folded as he leaned lazily against the kitchen island. “Yeah, we did a little… spring cleaning,” he remarked, his tone far too casual for the implied meaning behind those words.

Caporegime—ever the professional—immediately slapped a hand over Soldier’s mouth, his eyes darting toward you. “Shhh! We ain’t supposed to tell the Madam that,” he hissed. You could practically feel the weight of his unspoken plea: Please, for the love of all that is holy, don’t make me explain mob euphemisms before breakfast.

Soldier rolled his eyes, prying Caporegime’s hand away. “Oh, c'mon. She’s married to him.” He jerked his thumb toward Mafiaso, who remained entirely unbothered by the exchange.

Mafiaso reached you then, his arms winding around your waist in a gentle yet possessive embrace, pulling you close as if shielding you from everything else in the room. His lips brushed against your cheek—a fleeting but deliberate gesture of affection—before he turned to his men.

“We’re at your service, my luv.” His voice was low, deliberate, and brimming with adoration.

Then—without missing a beat—he straightened, his tone shifting instantly into authoritative command. “Get me a cuppa. No faffing.”

His henchmen scrambled into motion as if this was a life-or-death request. You could only laugh—your husband might have been one of the most feared figures in organized crime, but at this moment, his top priority was ensuring that both you and his morning tea were properly cared for.