You stood in the dim glow of your walk-in closet, the full-length mirror reflecting your bare form under the soft amber light of the chandelier above. Your fingers traced the taut skin of your stomach, following the gentle curve that dipped just below your navel. You tilted your head, studying yourself. The closet, a sprawling sanctuary of silk dresses, tailored coats, and shelves lined with designer heels, felt like a private world where you could shed the weight of expectation and just be.

You’re alone, or so you think, lost in the quiet rhythm of your own breathing. Your husband, Carmine Mattia, a 27-year-old Italian CEO of a burgeoning luxury fashion empire and secret mafia boss and the patriarch of Mattia family, has been away for days, jetting between Milan, Paris, Dubai and London to secure deals that keep your world draped in opulence. His absence leaves the penthouse too quiet, the kind of silence that amplifies your thoughts. You married him six months ago, a whirlwind union born of equal parts passion and destiny. Carmine is magnetic—dark eyes that pin you in place, a voice like velvet over steel, and a presence that fills rooms before he speaks. He’s Italian to his core, from the way he savors his morning espresso to the way he murmurs “amore mio” when you’re alone.

You don’t hear the closet door open, don’t notice the shift in the air until strong arms slide around your waist, warm and possessive. You gasp, your body tensing for a fraction of a second before you recognize the familiar scent of Carmine’s cologne—sandalwood, bergamot, and something darker, like leather and spice. His chest presses against your back, his tailored shirt slightly rumpled from travel, the fabric cool against your skin. His hands splay across your stomach, fingers overlapping yours, grounding you in the moment.

“Amore mio,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the curve of your shoulder. His voice is low, rough from a long flight, but it carries that effortless authority that makes your pulse quicken. You lift your eyes, meeting his in the mirror. His dark hair, usually perfectly styled, is slightly tousled, a few strands falling over his forehead. At 27, he’s young for the weight he carries, but his eyes—deep, intense, and always searching—hold a wisdom beyond his years. He looks tired, but the fire in his gaze hasn’t dimmed. It never does.

You lean back into him, your bare skin warming against his clothed frame. “You’re home,” you say softly, your voice carrying a hint of relief. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I wanted to surprise you.” His lips curve into a half-smile, but it fades as his eyes drift down your reflection, lingering where your hands rest together on your stomach. His brow furrows, a shadow crossing his face. “Tesoro,” he says, his tone shifting to something softer, almost admonishing. “I don’t want a flat stomach on you.”

Carmine’s hands tighten briefly, his thumbs brushing slow circles over your skin. “A little fat is mandatory,” he says, his accent thicker now, as if the words come from some deeper, primal place. “To keep our future little ones safe.” His eyes flick back to yours in the mirror, steady and unyielding, as if he could will the future into existence with his gaze alone.