Giovanni looked down at her with a smile. “Yeah, she is. Growing like a weed,” he said, leaning back as Mira started to fuss again. He began to bounce her gently, those big, calloused hands of his patting her back with a tenderness I didn’t expect from a guy who could rip a man apart without breaking a sweat.
Mikhail couldn’t help but laugh under his breath. “Looks like the old man’s gone soft, eh? Who would’ve thought Giovanni would be playing parent while me and Max run the show?”
“Watch it,” Giovanni warned. “This old man could still break you in half—diaper bag and all.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mikhail said, waving a hand dismissively. “But you’re the one wiping spit off your shoulder, old man. Isn’t that something?”
Giovanni chuckled. “Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, boys. One day, you’ll be the ones with the spit-up, and I’ll be the one running the show again.”
I leaned back in my seat, watching the two of them argue like old friends even if the sharpness of their words suggested otherwise.
Mikhail raised an eyebrow, smirking as he took another sip of his coffee. “We’ll see about that. For now, I’m happy with my clean shirts and late nights.” He leaned back in the booth, his smirk growing wider. “Besides, it’ll happen to Max before it happens to me. You know how he is with Rosalie. He’ll be knee-deep in diapers before he knows it.”
Giovanni raised an eyebrow, clearly interested. “Is that so? What makes you so sure?”
Mikhail chuckled, shaking his head. “You know how it is. Max just has that look in his eye. And I’ve seen the way Rose looks at him. It’s only a matter of time.”
I tried to keep my expression neutral, but I could feel the heat rising to my face. The thought of Rosalie was enough to send my mind spiraling. It wasn’t that Mikhail was wrong. In fact, he was spot-on. I’d been thinking about it more and more lately—Rosalie, with her wild curls and her feisty attitude.
And yeah, the idea of her carrying my babies had crossed my mind more than once. A lot of them too. I’d been trying to convince her to stop taking her birth control, dropping hints, teasing her about how good she’d look pregnant; how she’d be an amazing mom. But Rosalie, stubborn as always, would just roll her eyes and laugh it off, telling me she wasn’t ready yet.
But damn, was I ready. More than ready.
As I stared into my coffee, I couldn’t help but imagine it—Rosalie, pregnant with our first kid, her belly growing rounder each day. She’d complain about the cravings, and I’d run out in the middle of the night to get whatever weird food she was suddenly obsessed with. And when the baby came, I’d be right there every step of the way.
Giovanni’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. “No, it’s not. This family doesn’t need any bastards, and they’re not even married yet. Which, Max, please get on with. I’d hate to have to tell your sister I had to kill you.”
He was right. It wasn’t just about wanting Rosalie to be mine—it was about making sure the world knew she was mine. Giovanni wasn’t making a casual suggestion; this was a demand—one I understood clearly. Our world came with rules, and one of the most sacred was ensuring the family name carried on without any question of legitimacy. Which I was well aware of.
That was exactly why I’d fought to get Rosalie to marry me, even despite how our wedding day had panned out. I hadn’t had to fight so hard, which was a shocker.
In fact, I think she’dwantedto marry me.
And that was how we’d found ourselves at a courthouse—if you could even call it that—at three in the morning. It was downtown, tucked away inside a casino that prided itself on being open 24/7. The receptionist had looked half-asleep when we approached the desk, but I didn’t care. I was too busy watching Rosalie. She had that look in her eye—the one that told me she was all in, no matter how unconventional it was.
The receptionist had blinked a few times, clearly trying to wake herself up. She’d given us a once-over, probably wondering what two people like us were doing getting married at such an ungodly hour in such an odd place, but she hadn’t asked any questions. She’d just stamped the papers and handed us a number, telling us to wait our turn.
“You won’t have to kill me,” I finally told Giovanni as I took out an envelope from the pocket of my suit jacket and placed it on the table in front of him. “I already made her my wife.”
My wife.
I really liked the sound of that.
He glanced back up at me. “Is this it?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, sliding the envelope closer. “Everything’s in there—proof of marriage, new contracts, and a few other details that need your approval.”
Giovanni picked up the envelope, flipping it open. “Good,” he said, taking it out to read the documents. He scanned them quickly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he read.
Mikhail leaned over, trying to catch a glimpse of a sentence or two, but Giovanni turned the papers away from him.
“Looks thorough,” Giovanni finally said, “but I have a question.”
“I figured.”
“Why is Rosalie’s name on the marina? I thought that would be in our control.”
“The Romanos are still the holders, but the marina is in Rosalie’s name.”
