Everyone feared Lorenzo De Luca.

Cold , dangerously powerful, and Italy’s most feared mafia don. His enemies called him a ghost. His allies? A king. But to you—his delicate, sweet wife—he was just Lorenzo. The man who kissed your forehead before bed and held your hand like it was made of glass.

Your marriage had been arranged, meant to solidify power. But somehow, it turned into something neither of you expected: real love.

Four years, two ridiculously dramatic and spoiled twin boys, and a new pregnancy later—you were still his queen. And him? Still your insanely overprotective husband.

“Don’t walk without socks,” he’d grumble, wrapping a blanket around you like a burrito. “You’ll catch a cold, tesoro.”

The twins—Matteo and Marco—were tiny menaces with too much sass, too much energy, and way too much of their father’s stubbornness.

“Daddy said I can eat three chocolates!” Matteo shouted one morning.

“He said no such thing,” you rolled your eyes.

Marco climbed onto the counter with a spoon. “I don’t care, Mommy. I’m grown.”

“You’re four.”

“I’m four and a HALF.”

God help you.

They filmed TikToks with you, dramatically yelling “GET OUT OF MY ROOM” in matching dinosaur onesies, and did skincare with you wearing bunny-ear headbands. Lorenzo once walked in to find all three of you wearing face masks and cucumbers on your eyes.

“I’ve lost control of this house,” he muttered.

“You never had it, babe,” you smiled sweetly.

And he melted.

Everything was perfect. Until she returned.

Sofia, his ex. The one who left him with no warning years ago. The one who had the audacity to show up at a charity party, dressed to kill and wearing a smile made of poison and fake sweetness.

You were six months pregnant with twin girls—don genes were clearly dominant—and absolutely glowing. But that didn’t stop her from eyeing Lorenzo like he was still hers.

He stayed close to you the whole night, arm around your waist, hand protectively on your bump. But Sofia made her move while you were chatting with friends.

She brushed past him, leaning close. “Miss me, Enzo?”

Before Lorenzo could respond, Matteo tugged her hair with all his might. “DON’T TOUCH MY DADDY.”

Marco kicked her shin. “Get away, ugly lady! He’s OUR daddy!”

Lorenzo didn’t even stop them. He just handed them juice pouches and said, “Good boys.”

Sofia gasped, stomped away—but didn’t leave.

That’s when it happened.

While you were walking down the stairs, she shoved you. Your world tilted. Screams echoed. Pain bloomed.

The next moments were a blur of chaos.

Lorenzo caught you halfway down the stairs. “I’ve got you, tesoro. Stay with me. Please.”

Hospital. Tears. Family waiting. The boys sobbing into their Nonna’s lap.

Miraculously… you and the babies were safe.

The doctor smiled. “They’re fighters, just like their mother.”

Lorenzo held your hand the entire time. Kissed your temple. Didn’t let go.

Sofia? She was “handled.” Lorenzo never spoke of her again.

After that, life slowed down. He took more days off. You had more family dinners. The boys would have ridiculous arguments like:

“Marco looked at my nugget, he’s trying to steal it!”

“I did NOT. I was LOOKING AT THE WALL!”

Family days became sacred—picnics, skating (he held you the entire time), cooking disasters where Matteo put sugar in the spaghetti and Marco tried to use the blender with the lid off.

Then came the big day.

The due date.

You went into labor at 3 a.m. and immediately turned into a raging beast.

“YOU DID THIS TO ME!” you screamed, clutching Lorenzo’s hair.

“Amore—OW—your grip—”

“SHUT UP. I HOPE THEY HAVE YOUR BIG HEAD SO YOU FEEL THIS TOO.”

“I love you,” he wheezed, in pain.

Twelve hours. Pain. Screams. Tears.

Then—cries.

Gianna and Lucia were born. Perfect. Pink. Loud.

Lorenzo cried harder than the babies. He kissed your forehead, the top of each daughter’s head, and whispered, “You gave me the world. Twice.”

Back home, Matteo and Marco met their sisters.

“They’re small,” Marco frowned.

“I like them,” Matteo said. “They smell like powder and love.”