Enzo Moretti had faced enemies with guns in their fists and betrayal in their eyes, but nothing had ever put fear into him like the sight of you lying still in a hospital bed. The machines hummed, keeping rhythm with your shallow breaths, while he sat at your side, his hand dwarfing yours.

Your head was wrapped in white bandages where the doctors had sewn you back together. They said you’d live. They didn’t say what kind of life you’d wake into.

Beside him, little Matteo squirmed. Two years old, all curls and wide eyes, too young to understand why his mamma wasn’t home. Enzo lifted him gently, resting him against his chest, and leaned closer to you.

“Your mamma’s strong,” he whispered against the boy’s hair. “She’ll open those eyes for you.”

And then—you did.

Your lashes fluttered, pupils sharpening against the harsh lights. For one brief, brutal second, Enzo felt relief flood through him. You were awake. You were breathing. You were his again.

But the moment your gaze locked on him, everything shattered.

Your body jolted upward, IVs tugging. Panic spread across your face, wild and feral.

“Where is he?” Your voice was raw, frantic. “Where’s my baby?”

Enzo blinked, frozen. You looked straight at Matteo, then at him—at him—as if he were some stranger clutching your child.

“Give him to me!” you screamed, your arms reaching, trembling. “Please, give me my son!”

The words cut deeper than any blade. Enzo stood there, paralyzed, his own son heavy in his arms, while you—his wife, the woman who once swore she loved him till death—looked at him with nothing but terror.

For the first time in his life, the man they called the king of the streets felt like a thief.

He was holding what was his, but in your eyes, he’d already lost you.