Mag-log inWhen we went out, which was rare, it was like a military operation. I had doubled the guard, doubled the armored cars, and I walked so close to her that I was practically carrying her. “Alessandro,” she sighed one afternoon, sitting in the newly renovated nursery, a room painted in soft, creamy yellows and whites. “I am pregnant, I am not invalid, I can pick up a book.” I snatched the book from her hand and placed it on the shelf, “It was on a high shelf, you could have stretched, you could have lost your balance.” She gave me a look that was half-amused and half-exasperated. “I was reaching for a paperback, not climbing Mount Everest.” I knelt in front of her chair, placing my hands on the swell of her stomach, which was now round and beautiful, a visible, tangible promise of our future. “I cannot take risks, Angel,” I whispered, feeling the baby kick against my palm, a strong, solid thud that made me smile every single time. “I lost one, I will not lose another, I will wra
(Alessandro’s POV) The silence in the hallway was not empty, for it was filled with the deafening, thunderous sound of my own heart rewriting every law I had ever lived by. I was on my knees, a position no king should ever take, but I would stay on my knees for a thousand years if it meant I could stay in this moment, this perfect and terrifying moment where the universe had shifted on its axis. “A father,” I breathed, the word tasting like a prayer on my tongue, and I looked up at her, at Isabella, who was standing there in her white silk robe like a vision of everything good and pure in this world. She nodded, her tears falling freely now, and she reached down to touch my face, her fingers trembling against my skin. “Yes, Alessandro, you are going to be a father, and we are going to have a family.” The shock finally began to recede, replaced by a wave of protectiveness so fierce, so primal, that it roared through my veins like liquid fire. I surged to my feet, my hands ins
And then, the door clicked, and it slowly, slowly opened. Isabella stood there, wrapped in her white, silk robe, her dark hair a beautiful, messy tangle around her shoulders. She was pale, yes, she was definitely pale, but her eyes… her beautiful, honey-gold eyes were shining, shining with a light so bright, so powerful, that it lit up the entire, dark hallway, and she was crying, but it was not tears of sadness, it was tears of a profound, earth-shattering joy. She was holding something in her hand, a small, white plastic stick, and she held it out to me, her hand shaking so hard she could barely keep it steady. I just stared at it, my mind completely blank, frozen, I did not understand. My world was guns, and ledgers, and blood, I had no idea what this was, this small, strange object, and my mind, still trapped in the horror of the hospital, could only see it as a threat. “Angel, what is it?” I asked, my voice a desperate, pleading thing, “What’s wrong? Tell me, what do I ne
(Alessandro’s POV) Our time in Paris was not a honeymoon, it was a rebirth, a beautiful, sun-drenched, and quiet dream where we were not a king and a queen, but just a husband and a wife. We walked the cobblestone streets hand-in-hand, we ate pastries at tiny, sidewalk cafes, we made love in the silver moonlight with the Eiffel Tower as our witness, and for two perfect, stolen weeks, the world, with all its blood, and its ghosts, and its ashes, simply did not exist. We were just Alessandro and Isabella, a man and a woman so deeply, so completely, and so normally in love that it felt like the greatest victory of my life. But the dream, as beautiful as it was, had to end, because the real world was waiting, our kingdom was waiting. On our last morning, I held her on the terrace, our bodies wrapped together, and we watched the sun rise over the city one last time, the sky a beautiful, soft painting of pink and gold. “I don't want to leave,” she whispered against my chest, her voic
(Alessandro’s POV) Paris was not a city, it was a dream, a beautiful, soft, and golden haze that had wrapped itself around us, and the days had melted into a perfect, timeless blur. We had been here for a week, but it felt like a single, wonderful, endless day, a life lived entirely in silk sheets, and quiet, sun-drenched cafes, and the constant, intoxicating taste of Isabella’s lips. We had barely left the penthouse, for we were lost, lost in each other, and lost in the new, beautiful, and powerful purpose we had found. We were trying for a family, a real one, a new beginning forged from the ashes of our past, and this simple, profound goal had changed everything, it made the air brighter, the food richer, and the nights, the nights were a sacred, endless, and breathtaking exploration of the woman who was my wife. I was watching her, my queen, as she stood on our private terrace, the setting sun painting her in shades of rose and gold, the city spread out before her like a gift
I woke to the feeling of being watched, that same soft, warm, and heavy sensation, and I knew, even before I opened my eyes, that he was looking at me. The Parisian morning was a soft, gray light, filtering through the silk curtains, and the world felt quiet, still, perfect. I turned my head, my hair a messy, dark tangle on the expensive, white pillows, and I found his golden eyes, already awake, already focused, his gaze so intense it felt like a physical touch. He smiled, a slow, sleepy, and utterly beautiful smile that was just for me. “Good morning, my wife,” he whispered, his voice a low, rough rumble from sleep. “Good morning, my husband,” I whispered back, my voice shy, and he leaned in, his kiss slow, and deep, and lazy, a kiss that tasted of sleep, and of us. “I could get used to this,” I murmured against his lips. “I plan on making sure you do,” he growled, but he didn't move away, he just held me, his gaze serious, loving. I traced the dark, intricate tattoos
(Alessandro’s POV) The sharp, ugly crack of the slap echoed in the vast, silent penthouse, it felt louder than a gunshot, more violent than any explosion I had ever witnessed. Isabella stumbled back, her hand flying to her cheek, but her beautiful, happy face was not one of confusion, it was
(Alessandro’s POV) I woke to the soft, golden light of dawn and a profound, unnerving silence, the space beside me in the bed was empty. For a single, heart-stopping second, the old, familiar panic seized me. The wars, the ghosts, the constant, gnawing fear of loss it all came rushing back
(Alessandro’s POV) I held her in the darkness, my confession of being "terrified" of this happiness still hanging in the air. She rose up, her beautiful face illuminated by the moonlight, and placed her hand on my heart. “It is not fragile, Alessandro,” she said, her voice a firm, unshakab
(Alessandro’s POV) The first morning of our new world was quiet. I woke with the sun, a habit I could not break, but for the first time in as long as I could remember, I did not wake with a jolt of anxiety, my hand reaching for a gun that wasn't there. There was only the soft, warm weight of







