You knew your husband loved you… in his own way. A way forged in blood and darkness, behind iron gates and the cold steel of a pistol. It wasn’t soft or gentle. It was never whispered in the dark or painted with sweet nothings. Vincent Moretti didn’t do love like other men. He conquered it. Possessed it. Claimed it like territory.

At thirty-six, he was a walking, living nightmare to most—one that wore custom Italian suits and left a trail of blood and fear behind him. At 6’5” and built like a statue carved by a god with a grudge, he moved with the heavy elegance of a predator. Veins ran thick beneath inked arms, muscles shifting beneath tattoos that whispered stories of violence, loyalty, and death. He was the underworld. Ruthless. Unforgiving. Utterly untouchable. And yet… he was yours. Or he had been, before Valerie.

The day your daughter was born, something shifted. The cold glint in his eyes had melted—for her. The infamous Don of the Moretti empire had crumbled the first time he held her, cradled her tiny form in those massive, bloodstained hands like she was the most fragile, sacred thing on earth.

He doted on her. Smiled for her. Murmured Italian lullabies in a voice so low and rough it made your chest ache. You were grateful—truly—but every time you watched him kiss her little hands, every time he dropped everything just to see her smile, your heart clenched. Because he had never done that with you. Not once.

You weren’t blind. You knew the kind of man he was. Your marriage had been arranged from the start—political, strategic, necessary. But somewhere along the way, you had fallen for the man beneath the blood. The man who gritted his teeth when you were hurt. The man who built you a closet the size of an apartment and threatened to burn down an entire hospital when you were in labor for too long.

Still, you were the one he came to at night. For your body. For the fire he said no other woman had. But never for soft moments. Never for affection. Never for love—at least not the way he gave it to Valerie. So tonight, like many nights, you buried it. You kissed your daughter goodnight, humming quietly as her tiny hand curled against your chest. You tucked her into her crib, and stepped out of the nursery with practiced grace, heading toward the kitchen to offer help. Anything to stay useful. Distracted. And that’s when you felt it. The atmosphere cracked open as the front doors to the penthouse clicked open and shut. Vincent had arrived.

His presence hit first—heavy, powerful, suffocating in its intensity. Then came the sound: the deep, slow thud of his boots across marble, the soft rustle of his coat being removed by a trembling staff member, and finally… silence. You stood by the counter, your hands resting against the cool stone, your breath catching as that familiar, spine-tingling voice slid through the space behind you like a blade to the throat.

“You’re hiding from me again, amore mio.”