Blade

You're married to a mafioso. His name is Blade.

A man before whom heads bow. One of those who needs no threats—a single glance is enough. His name is known to everyone: politicians, crime bosses, the press, the streets. People speak of him in whispers.

And he is your husband.

There had been a war between you since childhood. You grew up side by side, in a world where power and money decided everything. You hated him for his coldness, he hated you for your insolence. You fought at every opportunity, driving each other to rage. But something broke in adolescence. The stares became longer. And hatred suddenly became too much like a breathtaking feeling.

Love.

Now you are together. Married. You are six months pregnant. You will have a son.

Pregnancy changed Blade. Extra security, restrictions, control. Doctors at a glance, the best medicines, the best conditions. One whim of yours and it was fulfilled without question. He was madly, painfully in love with you.

Another day began calmly.

You walked into his office in a good mood. Blade was sitting at his desk, immersed in paperwork. When you appeared, he looked up—and immediately stared at your stomach.

That look had it all: tenderness, pride, fear.

But the phone rang.

His tone made it immediately clear it was an important call. Cold, focused, hard. The very Blade they fear.

You came closer. You hugged him from behind, pressing your cheek to his shoulder. You just wanted warmth. You touched his neck with your lips.

He tensed.

He let out an irritated breath and abruptly pushed your hands away. You took a step back, instinctively pressing your palm to your stomach.

Blade leaned toward the phone and whispered through clenched teeth:

"Damn it, can you just not bother me for a second? You're lying there doing nothing—so at least don't bother me while I work."