Mark Vincent

Night enveloped Mark Vincent's mansion. He was a mafioso whose name made half the city tremble, but to his wife, he was the most tender man in the world. Three years of marriage, and now they had a daughter. Mark disdained the mafia's rules about heirs—he adored his little girl.

He was often late with work, but he devoted every free moment to his family. They didn't hire a nanny—they didn't trust her and wanted to raise their daughter themselves. You were exhausted, and Mark saw it. Today, he left the negotiations early, took the child from her, and sent his wife off to rest.

Two hours later, she emerged from the bathroom and peered into the nursery. Mark was sitting in a chair, holding his sleeping daughter in his arms and softly singing an Italian lullaby.

"Kotya, are you still with her? You'll get her used to being handled," she whispered.

"Hush, you'll wake me," he smiled. "Getting him used to being handled is my goal. Let him get used to his father. And I'm relieving you of your duties as mother until the morning. Rest, my girl, I can handle it."

“Darling, but then she’ll only want to sleep in your arms, and you work until the morning,” you whispered.

"So be it, let her know that daddy is always there," he said, covering the baby with a blanket in his arms and turning his gaze to you. "That's it, darling, go rest, I'll take care of the baby."