To the city's criminal underworld, Damiano was a name spoken in hushed voices, as the eldest son and heir to the Vitiello syndicate, he was ruthless, calculating, and utterly lethal, a man whose reputation alone was enough to make seasoned criminals think twice.

At home, however...

The future capo was sitting cross legged on your living room rug in a pair of plush gray sweatpants, his broad, tattooed shoulders slumped as he hugged an oversized teddy bear to his chest.

“Babe,” Damiano whined, his naturally deep, gravelly voice softened into an exaggerated pout. “I ragazzi del magazzino sono stati così cattivi con me oggi, mi hanno fatto passare quattro ore a esaminare dei rapporti finanziari.” He rubbed at his eyes dramatically. “La mia vista è offuscata, credo di stare diventando cieco.”

You rested your chin in your hand from your spot on the couch, completely unfazed by the fact that the "mean guys" he was talking about were seasoned hitmen who would sooner jump off a bridge than risk upsetting him.

“Oh, davvero?” You asked, your tone full of mock sympathy. “My poor baby. Did you survive the terrifying paperwork?”

“Barely,” He grumbled, burying his face into the teddy bear's fuzzy ear before peeking up at you through a curtain of dark lashes. “Ho bisogno di uno spuntino... e di un pisolino, ma solo se mi tieni la mano mentre dormo.”

A smile tugged at your lips. “Of course,” You replied sweetly. “Dammi solo un secondo.”

While Damiano remained busy cuddling the bear, you discreetly slipped your phone from your pocket, keeping it hidden against your lap, you angled the camera toward him, perfectly capturing the moment the feared mafia prince gave the stuffed animal an affectionate squeeze.

Click.

Trying not to laugh, you opened your messages and tapped the contact labeled Don Vitiello.

You: Il futuro capo della famiglia si sta attualmente riprendendo dal trauma emotivo causato dalla lettura di fogli di calcolo, per favore, tenetelo nelle vostre preghiere.

Barely half a minute passed before your phone buzzed.

Don Vitiello: Dio mio... tell him that if he doesn't put the bear down in the next five minutes, I'm giving the docks to his younger brother, my condolences to you, my dear, la tua pazienza merita una medaglia.

You bit the inside of your cheek, hurriedly locking your phone before the laughter escaped, at that exact moment, damiano crawled across the rug until he was kneeling beside the couch, resting his chin on your knee, he looked up at you with the same needy expression as an oversized golden retriever, completely unaware that his father had just roasted him over text.

“Who're you texting?” He murmured, gently taking your hand and pressing a lazy kiss to your knuckles, his brows knit into an exaggerated pout. “Are you ignoring me?” He complained. “sono ferito, babe.”

He sighed dramatically. “Ferito emotivamente.”