Page 57 of A Bride for the Mafia King

There’s more than just a war to fight now.

There’s a life to protect.

And I will burn this fucking city to the ground before I let anyone touch her again. Or our child.

“Go.” Nico’s voice breaks through my thoughts. Drawing me back to the here and now. “Go see her, I’ll be there in a few minutes. I need to check on someone first.”

There’s that word again, someone. I watch him retreat into the foyer, his phone to his ear, talking in quiet tones. Deciding it’s an issue for another day I turn back to the hallway and go to see my wife.

The door closes softly behind me. And for a moment, I just stand there, the quiet hum of the room pressing against my senses. The lights are dimmed, casting the space in a soft golden glow. The bed seems too big for her fragile body tucked beneath the covers, bruised and pale.

She looks so… small. That realization guts me as I take a slow tentative step forward. Then another. Lowering myself beside her, I perch on the edge of the mattress with care, as if even the shift of it beneath my weight might disturb her.

Pregnant… I still can’t quite believe it. My fingers hover above hers for a moment, then settle gently over her hand. She stirs slightly at the contact, her brows twitching in her sleep—but she doesn’t wake.

Her dark lashes fan across her cheekbones. There’s a bruise blooming just beneath one eye. My jaw clenches at the sight of it, rage and guilt curling in my gut. I should have protected her… them, better.

I reach up and brush a stray wisp of hair from her forehead, letting my knuckles linger just a moment longer than I should. Her skin is soft. Still her. Still my Eva.

But everything’s different now. My eyes shift down to the slight outline of her stomach beneath the blanket, the change subtle, barely there. But I see it now. I feel it.

Our child. The one she didn’t tell me about. The one Yaro almost stole from me before I even knew he existed. Cautiously, I slide my hand beneath the blanket and lay it flat over the curve of her stomach.

I don’t know what I’m expecting. Movement? A sign of some sort? But there’s only warmth. And I laugh inwardly at my childishness. Of course there's nothing yet, it's too soon. But knowing, well it's enough.

Bending forward, my lips brush softly against the back of her hand. Then, voice barely above a breath, I speak into the silence that sits between us. “I didn’t know,” I whisper, my throat tight. “I’m so sorry I didn’t know.”

I can’t help but wonder if she was going to tell me at dinner, if that’s why she had looked so hopeful at the idea. My palm stills, steadying over her belly.

“I’ll protect you,” I murmur. “Both of you. With everything I am. With my name. With my blood. With my life.”

I close my eyes, resting my forehead against the edge of the mattress, still clutching her hand as if it’s the only thing holding me together.

Because maybe it is. The room falls quiet except for that soft humming once again. And then⁠—

A soft voice. Barely audible. “...I believe you.”

My eyes snap open.

Her voice—raspy, low, worn thin with pain—but it’s hers. And it slices through my heart with joy. Some part of me, I realize, had worried she’d never wake, never recover. That I’d lose them both and that even in death Yaro had won, had claimed his revenge.

I lift my head and I’m surprised to find that she’s looking at me. Lashes fluttering, gaze hazy but fixed on mine. Her lips curve faintly, too weak for a smile, but there’s warmth there behind her words. Trust that I wonder if I even deserve.

“You should be resting,” I say quietly, sitting up straighter, my hand moving instinctively to her brow. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Her fingers tighten around mine.

“Don’t go.” The words are whispered, but there’s no mistaking the plea in them.

“I’m not. I’m right here,” I reassure her, torn between the guilt of disturbing her and the need to talk to her. “But you need rest. Real rest. The doctor said⁠—”

“I’ll rest better… with you here.” She blinks slowly, exhaling shallowly. I can see the pain on her face even as she tries to hide it. “Just stay. Please.”

I hesitate—only for a second, evaluating my options. Then I move. Carefully shifting onto the bed, mindful of her fragile state, placing my body firmly beside her so that she can lean against me for comfort.

I slide my arm beneath her head, my other wrapped protectively across her waist as she curls gently against my chest. Her breath hitches slightly as she shifts, finding the most comfortable spot, her hand curling against my sternum on instinct.

This close, I can feel every breath she takes. Every flutter of her lashes against my collarbone. Every soft tremor in her fingers. She’s breakable. Precious. And she’s mine.