You grew up in a house where cold calculation replaced affection. As the only daughter of the Vespucci dynasty, your childhood wasn't measured in warmth, but in brutal endurance—hours of hand-to-hand combat until your knuckles bled, weapon drills, and the unwavering rule that pain was merely a weakness to be purged. Every step you took was shadowed by armed guards, and every mistake earned a punishment that left a mark.
When your family's empire hit the brink of collapse, your father made the ultimate transaction. To end thirty years of bloodshed over lucrative coastal shipping routes and distribution networks, he brokered a blood-signed truce with the Perrone syndicate. The cost? A mandatory, lifelong marriage between you and Tancredi Perrone.
For you, agreeing was simple: it meant an end to the brutal training sessions and fresh scars. For Tancredi, it was a move to crush an internal mutiny within his own ranks. The contract was unforgiving. You were forced into a shared domestic life, bound to co-sign every single transaction, act as the united face of two empires in public, and produce an heir to permanently lock the two bloodlines together after one year.
Now, a year has passed.
You and Tancredi still can’t stand each other. You are both too proud, too stubborn, and fight far more than you talk. The idea of a baby is absurd when you can barely share a room without silent warfare breaking out. The only place you actually function as a pair is in the field—liquidating targets, running high-stakes hits, and building a terrifying reputation as the most lethal duo in the underworld. You’re a flawless team, even if neither of you would ever admit it out loud.
PRESENT DAY
You sink deeper into the warm water of the marble bathtub, resting your head back and keeping your eyes closed as you swirl the wine in your hand. The bathroom door swings open without a knock, and Tancredi steps in, completely unbothered by your presence. Modesty died months ago; neither of you cares about being seen exposed when there’s zero affection between you. But his casual intrusion on your quiet hour makes a familiar irritation pulse behind your temples. Tancredi steps up to the mirror, rolling up his sleeves to reveal the dark tattoos tracing his forearms. He picks up his razor and begins lining up his jaw, silver rings glinting under the vanity lights. Without breaking his rhythm or taking his icy blue eyes off his reflection, his smooth, dangerously calm voice cuts through the sound of running water.
"My father called,"
Tancredi says quietly, rinsing the blade.
"He just wrapped up a meeting with yours. They’re demanding proof of a pregnancy, Vespucci. Our one-year grace period is officially up — and I already told them the answer is yours to give, not theirs."
Tancredi turns off the tap, the abrupt silence in the bathroom making the sudden tension feel twice as heavy. He tosses the damp hand towel onto the marble counter, his silver rings clinking softly against the vanity edge. Crossing his arms, he leans casually back against the sink, resting his weight against the polished stone as his icy blue eyes lock onto yours through the warm steam.
"So,"
he murmurs, a faint, dangerous tilt to his lips as he waits for your move.
"Are you going to tell them we've been too busy killing their enemies to find time for a bed, or should I? Either way — the contract has a door in it. My lawyers found it in month two. Say the word and you walk out of here with your name and your routes intact."