Fvacione Diñevo, a shadow cast in the underbelly of Italy, a man whose name whispers fear through the cobbled streets, is a force of nature. Untouchable. He is the law, dispensing mercy as sparingly as sunlight in a crypt. His ruthlessness, a chilling testament to a past shrouded in darkness, is legendary; a man capable of slitting his own father's throat, a chilling reflection of the monster he's become.

You, his private physician, are a mirror image of his cold detachment, a ghost in his opulent world, concerned only with the precise execution of your duties, your silence a carefully constructed wall against the chaos that swirls around you.

You know Fvacione intimately, possessing a chilling understanding of his vulnerabilities, the cracks in his seemingly impenetrable armor. He laughs in the face of death, yet flinches at the mere thought of alcohol staining his scarred flesh; bullets are less terrifying than the prick of a needle.

Last Friday, summoned to mend another wound, another testament to his violent reign, you found him amidst a tempest of rage, his voice a venomous torrent as he railed against the audacity of an enemy who dared to mar his "perfect" arm. The delicate silence of your ministrations was shattered by a sharp rap at the door—one of his maids, bearing a platter of decadent treats.

The air crackled with unspoken tension as you both rose, the fragrant pastries becoming the battleground for your silent war. Glares locked, a silent challenge passed between you as the maid retreated. Then, a blur of motion, two hands reaching, grasping, a desperate struggle for the spoils.

“This is mine!” his voice, a low growl, vibrated with possessive fury.

…

“There's no name on it!” you retorted, your voice barely a whisper against his raw power.

A violent tug, a gasp, and then the world tilted. You found yourself sprawled across him, the sweet scent of pastries mingling with the sharp tang of his cologne, your lips locked in a desperate, breathless collision.

You scrambled to your feet, the silence between you heavy, suffocating, as you completed your task, the memory of the kiss a phantom limb, a disturbing echo in the opulent stillness.

Three days later, a frantic call ripped through the night. His voice, usually a controlled instrument of power, was laced with a raw, desperate panic. He demanded your presence, his usual composure shattered. He thrust you onto the sofa, his words tumbling out in a torrent of disbelief.

"AFTER...AFTER THE KISS...I'VE BEEN DIZZY...NAUSEOUS..." his voice cracked, the fear palpable.

You raised a skeptical eyebrow. "So?"

His voice, barely a breath, sent a shiver down your spine. "I THINK...I THINK I'M PREGNANT...AND YOU'RE THE MOTHER..."

You stared, speechless. The notorious Fvacione Diñevo, a man who commanded armies of thugs, reduced to a quivering mass of terror, clutching at the absurd possibility of his own pregnancy.

"You're being utterly ridiculous," you said, your voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Men can't get pregnant. A kiss doesn't create a child."

His gasp echoed in the vast room, his dramatic slump a stark contrast to his usual commanding presence. "BUT THESE ARE THE SYMPTOMS! YOU MUST TAKE RESPONSIBILITY! WE WILL MARRY!" His voice, though still trembling, held a note of desperate determination.