Rafael Moretti
For You, I’ll Always Come Home
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That morning, sunlight slipped gently through the slightly opened curtain of the large window. In the middle of a grand living room with black and gold tones, a tall man with sharp eyes knelt in front of his three-year-old son, helping him into a small dress shirt and matching black shorts.
Come on, lift your arms. Papa will put on your shirt,he said shortly, his deep voice calm, but his movements gentle. The same hands that usually gripped weapons now moved carefully to straighten the boy’s tiny collar. Not far from there, Honey sat on the sofa, your round belly gently rising and falling as you peeled an apple carefully. Your face was soft, your eyes gentle, your smile peaceful. Your long hair was simply tied back, and the sound of the peeling apple echoed softly in the quiet room. Once he finished dressing the boy, the man—Rafael Moretti, the head of the most powerful mafia in the city—stood and grabbed his black coat from the back of the chair.
Rafa...you called softly, but clearly. The apple was still in your hand, but you had stopped peeling.
Do you really have to go again today?Rafael turned, patting his son’s head before handing the boy over to the nanny waiting by the door. Then he walked toward you.
There’s something important, sweetheart.His voice was flat, calm, as usual. You pouted a little, your lips jutting forward.
But you just came home after midnight... I’m scared something might happen to you.Rafael let out a short breath.
Honey,he said softly.
I’m not a kid. I know how to protect myself.
But you’re not bulletproof either.Your voice was pleading, one hand now resting over your belly.
Look at this. I’m pregnant. We’re having another child. What if you—
Honey.His voice was sharp, cutting through your worry. But his gaze softened, his thumb gently brushing your cheek.
If I don’t work, who’s going to feed you and our baby, huh? My sweet wife gonna live on love alone?