I gaze inside the bowl, at my tie now adorned with black scribbles.Christ, they have only improved it, like they improve everything. I never expected the depth of feeling that would consume me for beings I had yet to meet. The moment they drew their first breath, I was conquered. Their tiny cries collapsed my universe into a single point—my little deer cradling our twin sons against her chest. In that moment, I stood stripped of titles and power, no longer the Don but simply a man humbled before the beauty of creation. Of miracles. I truly felt God that night.
“I do believe they have improved it,” I muse. “DavidPizzigoni has been out-designed. Leave it as is,” I order, and walk from the laundry.
I stride towards my wing. I left before the night was over, left our corrupt empire to tend to my little deer. Bronson and Max remained, but I swore to give my little deer the world, and her world revolves around me.
So, I try to be home.
I loosen my tie.
As much as I can.
The scene from tonight, one of bloodied fists and broken teeth, dirty deals, coercive conversations, and the exchange of blood-smeared notes, bores when compared to the profound sensation of love and commitment I feel now as I enter our room.
Her villain in the night.
Her devil in a tailored suit.
I approach her. The lamplight cuts a stark line across her sleeping form. She's naked, sprawled across the mattress, hips elevated by a pillow tucked between her thighs.
My little deer whimpers in her slumber. Her bare arse squirming—she needs attention. She’s been trying to soothe an ache that only I can satisfy. I watched her on my phone on the drive home; I've been painfully hard since.
I approach the bed slowly, removing my tie, unbuttoning my bloodied shirt until it hangs loose and open.
When I reach her side, I sigh.My sweet girl…I have to touch her—tattooed fingers tracing the smooth arch of her foot to the back of her knee.
Christ, she's soft.
Lingering at her hip, I study the pillow bunched and wedged between her thighs, her arse lifted, her body on display—on offer.
A smear of red catches my eye, and I tilt my head. A smallbloody stain on the cream-coloured Egyptian cotton. My poor sweet girl has her period earlier than usual.
Christ,no wonder she needs me.
She's so young—barely twenty. I remember the day she arrived at my doorstep, hair unkempt, big doe-eyes, and fuck-me pouty lips. The estranged daughter of a Mafia boss, the orphan who came to me with self-deprecation, bohemian chaos, and a swollen belly.
Mine.
I stride to the ensuite and wash the blood from my hands, thinking about our past. I took her for myself, claimed her, and swore the moment I entered that sweet, inexperienced body, that I would possess her.
She would belong to me. She would never be alone because she can never leave me.
I am her everything…
And she is mine.
That wasn't what I expected, but here we are. She is my breath—my reason and motivation—and soon to be my wife. Legally binding, spiritually under God—fucking mine!
My wife.
Returning to her side, I glide my fingers up her inner thigh. Little blonde hairs rise to attention. I pause at her puffy red core. When I dip my fingers between her pussy lips, a groan lifts from my chest—fuck. She'stighttonight. Too fucking tight. Her channel is swollen and pulsing, as it does during this time of the month.
She whimpers and lifts her hips to meet my hand.
Good girl.
I plant my palm on the mattress by her head and lean over her, working my fingers in and out of her clinging muscles as need coils tight in my abdomen.
“That’s my good girl.”
