The desperation. The longing.
Slowly, I handed our daughter over.
She shifted in his arms — making a small, sleepy sound as she settled against his chest.
And then —
His entire expression changed.
It wasn’t the hardened mafia king.
It wasn’t the prisoner.
It wasn’t the strategist who had manipulated enemies into this room.
It was a father.
Pure.
He looked at her like she was oxygen.
His large hand supported her head gently while the other cradled her tiny body with careful precision.
Reverence.
Almost fear.
As if she might disappear.
“What happened to your leg?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He didn’t look away from her.
“Minor disagreement with a prison gang.”
His voice was casual.
“Nothing worth mentioning.”
“Minor?” I repeated.
He finally lifted his gaze to mine.
“I’ve had worse.”
There was truth in that statement.
But there was also pain. Then — softer — he added:
“I’ll take her upstairs.”
My body tensed.
He continued before I could object. “I had the nursery prepared in our room.”
“Our room.”
The words hit me hard.
