Elena stirred, her lashes trembling before her eyes fluttered open. The first thing she saw wasn't the ceiling, wasn't the machines—it was Dominic, slouched in a chair beside her bed, his shirt rumpled, his jaw locked as if he'd been clenching it for hours. His hand hovered just above hers, as though afraid to touch and break her again.
"Dominic…" her voice cracked, raw, a whisper of pain.
He leaned forward instantly, eyes sharp, scanning her like a soldier assessing wounds. "You're awake." Relief bled through the words, though his face was still carved from stone.
The door creaked. A man in a white coat entered—a doctor, but not government, not public. This was one of Dominic's men, operating in one of his hospitals. Everything here was under his control. No outsiders. No leaks.
The doctor cleared his throat, but his eyes flicked nervously between Elena and Dominic. "She's stable… but there's something else." He shifted his gaze fully to Dominic, lowering his tone. "She's pregnant. Early, but the child is at risk. The stress, the physical strain… if it continues, she might lose it."
For a moment, Dominic froze. The word pregnant hung in the air like smoke after gunfire. His chest rose sharply, as though struck. His eyes darted to Elena—her pale face, her frail body. And something in him cracked open.
"She can't fight. She can't be near the field. She can't even breathe stress," the doctor continued firmly. "If she wants to keep the baby, she needs absolute rest."
Elena's lips parted, eyes wide. A tremor ran through her fingers. "Dominic…"
He silenced her with a look—sharp, protective, almost desperate. He turned to the doctor. "Discharge her. Now. But make sure she has everything she needs. Twenty-four-hour watch. No mistakes."
The doctor bowed his head and left quickly.
Silence lingered between them, heavy with the weight of the revelation. Dominic finally leaned forward, his voice a low growl, but softer than she'd ever heard it. "You're carrying my child… and you think I'll let anything touch you? Over my dead body, Elena."
Her throat tightened. Tears threatened, but she forced a shaky smile. "That's not exactly reassuring, you know."
For the first time in days, the corner of his mouth twitched. He brushed her knuckles with his thumb, finally touching her. "You rest. I'll handle the war."
The next morning, Dominic stood before his men in Command K, his presence commanding silence.
"You fought. You bled. You buried brothers. For one week, you will rest, rebuild your strength, your homes, your defenses. When you return, we strike harder than ever. But right now—stand down."
No one argued. They only nodded, for when Dominic spoke like that, it was law.
Two days later, Dominic drove Elena far from the city, to a villa tucked between cliffs and sea. The mafia king in him was never truly gone—the villa swarmed with hidden guards, weapons tucked in shadows—but for once, the world outside was distant.
For once, Dominic Moretti wasn't just the man at war. He was a man watching the woman he loved breathe beside him, one hand unconsciously brushing her stomach.
And though shadows of war still loomed, for the first time, he thought not just of battles won, but of the fragile cradle they now carried.
Elena sat curled on the couch, wrapped in a soft throw, her hand resting absently on her stomach. For the first time in months, her face wasn't set in steel. She looked… softer.
Dominic stood at the window, a glass of whiskey untouched in his hand, watching her instead of the sea. Finally, he broke the silence.
"You terrify me," he said simply.
Elena blinked, startled, turning to him. "That's… not the most romantic thing to say."
A shadow of a smile touched his lips as he set the glass aside and crossed the room. He lowered himself onto the couch beside her, close enough that his warmth bled into her. "I mean it. I've stared down guns, bled on battlefields, buried men I called brothers. None of it ever made my chest ache like this—like watching you fight, watching you break, and knowing I could lose you.
Her breath caught. He'd never spoken like this—not raw, not stripped of armor.
He reached for her hand, pressing it against his chest where his heartbeat thundered. "Elena… I love you." The words were quiet, certain, unshaken. "Not as a soldier, not as a pawn in this world. Just you. All of you. And I will love you for the rest of my life."
Elena's eyes burned. Her walls cracked, and she leaned into him, pressing her forehead against his. "You're late, Moretti. I've been loving you since the night I first saw you walked out of that building ."
His laugh was low, warm, unguarded. He tilted her chin up and kissed her—slow, not hungry, not demanding, but a kiss that carried promises.
When they pulled back, she rested against his shoulder, her fingers trailing along her stomach. "Do you think we'll be good parents? I mean, you run an empire of blood, and I'm…" she smirked faintly, "…me."
Dominic chuckled softly, wrapping an arm around her. "We'll be ruthless at it. No one will dare cross our child."
"Dominic, I'm serious."
"So am I." His voice softened. "We'll make mistakes, Elena. Everyone does. But if I can build kingdoms out of nothing, I can build a life for us. For them." His hand slid over hers, pressing firmly against her belly. "This is the only empire that matters now."
She looked at him then—really looked—and saw not the mafia king, not the man carved from shadows, but Dominic, stripped down to the man who'd chosen her.
Her lips curved into a faint, genuine smile. "Then let's learn together. No guns. No blood. Just us."
He kissed her again, longer this time, as though sealing a pact.
Outside, the waves still crashed, the world still roared with danger. But inside, beneath the quiet, Dominic Moretti and Elena carved out something rare—something tender. Love.