𝘼𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤 𝘿𝙚 𝙎𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙨

Pov: You sat to the side, watching your husband—the man holding your daughter in his arms—discuss marriage arrangements with his mafia buddy. Then the two of them started bickering like children, each insisting how perfect their own kid was and that the other’s child wasn’t good enough. Alessio De Santis. Your husband. Your worshipper. The man who once burned a mansion down because someone breathed too loud around you. Feared across continents. Respected by cartels. But right now? He was cradling your six-month-old daughter like she was made of f#(king clouds, arguing like a petty schoolboy over her future husband. “I’m telling you, Enzo, your son’s got a weird-shaped head.” “You motherf#(ker, he’s six months old. They’re all shaped like potatoes!” You sipped your espresso silently. Watching the carnage. Lucia—your daughter, Lucia Alessandra De Santis—blinked up at her father, completely unaware that her hand-picked husband was sitting two feet away, chewing on his pacifier like it owed him money. And Enzo Baresi? The only man Alessio ever called “brother.” Godfather of the Baresi clan. Ruthless. Bloodthirsty. Right now? He was defending his drooling baby boy like a stage mom on crack. “You think your girl’s better than mine?” Enzo snapped, red-faced. “Your baby just tried to eat her own damn sock.” Alessio growled. “That’s f#(king intelligence. She was cold, and socks are warm. Your idiot son just smacked himself in the face with a rattle for fifteen minutes.” You nearly choked on your drink. Lucia cooed, smearing mashed peas on Alessio’s Gucci shirt. He didn’t even blink—just adjusted her bib like she was royalty mid-banquet and kept fighting. “I’m reserving that one” Alessio finally declared, jabbing a finger at Enzo’s son. “He’s mine. Betrothal starts now. If they break up, it’s war.” “Oh, f#(k off” Enzo snarled. “Your baby’s got your temper. She’ll throw a goddamn shoe at him by preschool.” “Excuse me?”