The marketplace was buzzing, alive with color, noise, and the smell of food. Dominic hated it. Crowds meant risk, exposure, vulnerability. But Elena had insisted, and when Elena insisted… Dominic Moretti found himself following like a lovesick fool.
"Dom, slow down! You walk like you're chasing a man to kill," Elena teased, tugging his hand.
"That's because crowds are messy," he muttered, scanning the stalls, already cataloging every exit, every suspicious movement. "We shouldn't be here."
"We're shopping," she corrected, dragging him toward a fruit stand. "Normal people do this."
Dominic raised a brow. "We are not normal people."
"You're not. I'm trying to be." Elena grinned, biting into a mango slice the vendor offered. Her eyes lit up. "Oh my God, this is heaven. Buy me the whole basket."
Dominic sighed but peeled off bills without a word. The vendor's hands shook when he realized who was buying fruit from him, but Elena was too busy stuffing slices into her mouth to notice.
"Okay, now I want—" Elena spun, spotting another stall. "Pickles."
"You just ate mango," Dominic said flatly.
"Exactly. Mango and pickles."
His jaw tightened. "That's not food. That's a chemical accident."
She leaned in, whispering against his lips, "You said you'd give me anything I wanted…"
"Not a death sentence," he shot back, but her pout was lethal. A man who'd stared down assassins felt his knees weaken at a single sulk.
Five minutes later, Dominic stood holding a jar of pickles, watching in silent horror as Elena dipped one into mango juice and took a bite.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I kill men for less disturbing behavior."
Elena laughed, reaching for his hand. "You'll live. You might even try it."
"Over my dead body."
By the time they reached the clothing section, Dominic was juggling bags—fruits, odd snacks, even a pair of pink baby socks Elena had snatched with a dreamy smile.
She held them up now, pressing them to his chest. "Can you believe it? These tiny feet will be ours."
Something in Dominic softened. His hand closed over hers, over the socks, grounding her. "I can believe it," he said quietly. "Because it's the only thing in this world I want more than anything."
Elena kissed him right there in the middle of the crowd, not caring who saw. For once, Dominic didn't either.
Hours later, back at the villa, Elena sat cross-legged on the couch surrounded by snacks, pickles balanced on one side, chocolate bars on the other. Dominic stood in the doorway, arms crossed, shaking his head.
"You're a war crime waiting to happen," he muttered.
"Shut up and taste the chocolate-dipped pickle," Elena said, grinning.
He scowled. "If I survive this, Isabella doesn't stand a chance."
The next morning, Dominic swore he'd never be tricked into public shopping again.
But Elena had other plans.
"Dom," she called sweetly from the kitchen. "We need ice cream."
He glanced at the clock. "It's 7:30 in the morning."
"And?"
"And normal people eat breakfast at 7:30, not dessert."
She leaned on the counter, eyes sparkling. "You're forgetting something… I'm pregnant. And that means your laws don't apply to me."
Dominic groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "You're weaponizing hormones."
"Exactly."
Ten minutes later, the feared mafia boss was standing in line at a corner shop, wearing sweatpants and sunglasses, holding four tubs of ice cream like it was contraband. A cashier whispered to her coworker, "Isn't that Dominic Moretti?" but one glare from him shut them up instantly.
When he returned, Elena was waiting with a spoon. "Chocolate first."
"You're going to make yourself sick," he muttered, setting the tubs down.
She ignored him and took a giant scoop. Then she dipped a spoonful into a jar of… peanut butter.
"Elena—"
She hummed happily. "Mmm, perfection. Try it."
"I'd rather eat bullets."
"Dominic." She tilted her head, lips quirking. "Try it… or no kisses for you."
That was the moment a man who ruled half the underworld found himself tasting ice cream dipped in peanut butter at eight in the morning.
And hating himself because it wasn't terrible.
Later that day, Elena dragged him into a baby store. Dominic looked like he was being tortured.
"Why are there seventeen brands of baby bottles?" he asked, dead serious.
"Because babies have preferences too," Elena explained, picking up a tiny blue one. "This one looks cute."
"They don't look cute, they look identical. This is a scam."
Elena smirked. "Relax, big bad boss. You'll get used to it."
He muttered under his breath, "I'd rather negotiate with a gun to my head."
But when Elena held up a miniature onesie with "Daddy's Little Trouble" written across it, something inside him cracked. He took it gently from her hands, stared at it for a long second, then tucked it into their basket without a word.
Elena leaned against him, smiling. "See? You're a natural."
Dominic shook his head, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. "God help this kid if they inherit your cravings."
That night, Dominic lay on the couch with Elena sprawled on top of him, half-asleep, a jar of Nutella balanced on her belly. He looked down at her, brushing a hand over her hair.
"I've run empires," he whispered softly. "But this—taking care of you two—this feels like the real power."
Elena mumbled sleepily, "Mmhm. Just don't eat my Nutella."
Dominic laughed quietly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. The feared mafia king, undone by a jar of chocolate spread and the woman carrying his child.