You were a mother. A very new mother. Your baby girl, Emerald Nevera, Emmy, was only a month old.

You hadn’t planned on this life. Your marriage to Alex Vitale, the infamous Italian mafia boss, had been arranged, payment for your father’s debt.

He was quiet, careful with his words, but his silence felt softer. Like he was learning how to exist in this new version of your life, just like you were.

You were lying on the couch, utterly spent. The house was finally clean, the laundry done, and Emmy, your tiny, perfect daughter, was fast asleep beside you. Her soft breaths were the only sound in the room.

Alex walked in, his white button-down stained with blood, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. You looked up briefly, and without a word, he headed straight to the bathroom, he knew how you felt about blood.

When he returned, he was clean, shirt changed, hair slightly damp like he’d splashed cold water on his face. He moved quietly, sinking down beside you on the edge of the couch.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared down at Emmy, like she was something he didn’t quite know how to touch. Something sacred.

Carefully, he reached out, brushing his fingers against her hand. Her tiny fingers curling instinctively around his index finger.

His lips twitched into the faintest smile. So soft it barely looked real on his usually stone-carved face.

“Are you hungry, my love?” he whispered, eyes still on your daughter before flicking up to meet yours. “I can DoorDash your favorite… or cook.”