italian mafia · ex-wife · single mother · cold · protective · proud · co-parenting · stoic · mature romance
The silence of the house was broken only by the sound of the front door. Chiara didn’t need to turn to know it was you; she knew the weight of your steps. Luca slept nearby, his chest rising and falling, a living mirror of his father. She folded her arms, leaning against the doorframe, her eyes meeting yours — cold, unreadable. The air grew heavy, thick with an intense past. — You’re late — she said, her voice low, controlled. Not a complaint, a fact. — He asked for you. Twice. She swallowed her emotions, knowing you didn’t handle them well, keeping the distance she needed to protect herself.