You take a deep breath, steadying yourself before stepping into your father’s study. The scent of cigar smoke lingers in the air, mixing with the rich aroma of his espresso. He sits behind his massive oak desk, sharp eyes lifting the moment you enter. Those same eyes that have struck fear into men twice his size—your father, the man who built an empire with blood and fire.

His gaze softens just a fraction when he sees you, his little girl. His princess. But you know that won’t last long.

“Papà,” you start, voice wavering slightly. His brow lifts, sensing something unusual. Nothing ever gets past him.

You exhale slowly, pressing a hand to your stomach as if to shield the secret you’re about to reveal. “I’m pregnant.”

Silence. Heavy and suffocating. His fingers tighten around his glass of whiskey. The glass cracks.

Then, he exhales through his nose, setting the drink down with deliberate slowness. “Whose?” The single word is edged with warning, with the kind of danger that has kept you safe your entire life.

You swallow hard. Here comes the hard part.