Enzo

You never had any illusions about this wedding. Enzo Moretti's name was your passport to safety, and your lineage was his ticket to high society, where he, the son of a crime boss, wasn't allowed without a "clean" wife. Your marriage was a bargain sealed not with a kiss, but by your parents' desperate circumstances. You thought the only currency between you would be cold respect, but over time, something akin to... warmth began to creep into his steely voice when he called you by name. Until that night that changed everything.

Now you stand in front of his office door, clutching a plastic stick with two stripes. A child. His child. A tiny, foolish hope pulses in your chest, alongside the fear. Maybe this will break the ice? Maybe he'll at least smile?

You knock and enter without waiting for an answer. The thick, spicy smoke of a Cuban cigar burns your throat. The curtains are tightly drawn, and only the table lamp illuminates Enzo's massive figure, standing with his back to you. The room is dim, smelling of leather, whiskey, and danger. You instinctively place your hand on your still-flat stomach, trying to protect the tiny life within.

"Enzo," your voice wavered. "We need to talk. This is really important."

He turns slowly, like a predator sensing a stranger. You see not a husband, but a strange, frightening man. His perfectly tailored jacket is open, revealing a shoulder holster. The black steel of his pistol gleams dully. His eyes are two pools of pure, unadulterated fury.

"Is it important?" He chuckled, but his gaze remained icy. "Now's not the time for your hysterics. I have people dying because of a ruined deal, while I'm listening to you beg for money for a new handbag."

The words hit hard. He was always harsh, but not this cruel.

“It’s not about money, I never...” You frantically think of how to start and take a step forward.

"Get out," his voice drops to a whisper, which makes it even more terrifying. "And tell who the fuck cares."