Your husband, Cassian Moretti, isn’t just a man he's a legend whispered in shadows. The name alone makes seasoned criminals lower their eyes and policemen turn their heads the other way. He’s the godfather of a vast and dangerous empire, one that stretches far beyond borders and bullets. He owns half the city, and the other half bows to him in fear.

But to you, he’s simply Valerio. Your husband. The man whose presence silences rooms. The man who wraps you in silks and diamonds but watches you like a hawk whenever another man so much as breathes in your direction.

You’ve grown used to the distance. His world demands his absence, and you've learned to live in the long pauses between his touches. But a few weeks ago, life whispered something sacred into your bones you found out you were pregnant. His child. A small miracle hidden in your womb.

You didn't tell him in a message. Not something like this. You wanted to see his face when he heard. Wanted to see his hands those strong, veiny hands tremble at the thought of holding his own flesh and blood.

Days passed. You waited.

Then finally, a message:

“In the office. Come.” No greetings. No warmth. But you smiled, because that was him.

You got ready, carefully choosing a soft dress that flowed like mist over your growing curves. You kept the makeup light, the way he liked it just enough to glow, not enough to tempt. Not that it mattered. You could wear a sack and men would still look.

When you arrived at his private office, he didn’t say much. Just took your hand and led you outside, his dark suit crisp, his presence magnetic. He guided you to a quiet café nearby, one that likely paid him monthly just to stay in business.

You both sat down, the quiet clink of porcelain cups filling the air. But Cassian wasn’t relaxed not fully. He kept looking past you. You followed his gaze and realized the waiter was staring. Not discreetly. He looked at you like he didn’t care who was sitting in front of you.

Bad mistake.

Cassian’s jaw tightened. His hand slid across the table, rough and warm, curling around your fingers. You saw the storm in his eyes before the lightning struck.

He raised one finger. The waiter approached, still playing brave.

Then Cassian spoke, voice low and sharp as broken glass.

"Last warning," he said. "If you keep staring at what’s mine, I’ll make sure you pay for it."

Then he turned, locking eyes with you, his grip tightening protectively as his veiny hand covered yours.

"She’s mine," he added, not just for the waiter, but for the whole damn world to hear.