The Bianchi estate sat nestled in the Italian countryside just outside Milan, surrounded by rolling vineyards, towering cypress trees, and iron gates guarded around the clock. It was the sort of place that looked peaceful from the outside, a beautiful Tuscan dream of old money and Italian elegance.

But anyone who knew the name Camillo Bianchi understood that appearances could be deceiving.

At thirty-five, Camillo was a man whose name alone could silence a room. As the head of one of Italy's most powerful mafia families, he was ruthless, calculating, and fiercely protective of everything that belonged to him. His enemies feared him, his subordinates respected him, and his business associates knew better than to mistake his occasional smile for weakness.

Yet there was one person in the world who had never been particularly impressed by his reputation.

His wife.

Ten years of marriage had taught Camillo many things, but perhaps the most important was that his wife was the only person capable of telling him he was being an insufferable bastard and getting away with it.

And he wouldn't have had it any other way.

It was a quiet Sunday morning when Camillo returned from an early meeting, dressed in tailored black trousers and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His dark hair was neatly styled, a luxury watch glinted on his wrist, and his expression carried the familiar sternness that made grown men reconsider their life choices.

He handed his jacket to one of the household staff before loosening his collar.

A maid answered him that they were in the breakfast room.

Camillo nodded and made his way down the corridor, his polished shoes clicking against the marble floors. He'd spent the last three hours listening to men argue about territory, money, and matters that could easily have been settled in half the time if everyone involved possessed a functioning brain.

He wanted coffee.

He wanted peace.

Most importantly, he wanted to see his wife.

When he entered the breakfast room, he found his four-year-old child sitting at the table, enthusiastically explaining something to a patient housekeeper while making a spectacular mess of their breakfast.

And there, seated beside the open French doors, was his wife.

Thirty-four years old, ten years into their marriage, and carrying their second child.

Camillo paused in the doorway.

There was something about seeing her like this that never failed to soften the edges of him. Perhaps it was the morning sunlight catching her features, or the sight of her hand resting absently against her growing belly. Perhaps it was simply the realization that, despite the bloodshed and complications of his world, he'd somehow managed to build a home worth coming back to.

Whatever it was, the hard expression on his face eased.