Rose had never thought of herself as fragile. Not when she had faced the weight of her family's name, not when she had crossed paths with Silvio Mysterio for the first time, and certainly not when she stood up against the dark legacy of Eleanor Moore. But pregnancy… it was different. It left her raw, vulnerable in ways she had never experienced.
The mornings were the hardest. She would wake nauseated, skin pale, clinging to the sheets. More than once, Silvio rose before dawn to sit by her side, pressing a cool cloth against her forehead and coaxing her with gentle words. He was a man carved from steel in the outside world, but here—inside their sanctuary—his edges softened for her.
"La Fiora," he murmured one morning, kneeling at her side while she tried to fight the urge to retch again. "I would take this from you if I could. Every ache, every wave of sickness—I'd bear it myself."
She laughed faintly despite the heaviness in her stomach. "The great Silvio Mysterio, brought down by morning sickness? I'd pay to see it."
He smirked, brushing damp hair from her face. "Careful, wife. I have men who would ensure the sight is never forgotten."
She nudged him weakly with her elbow. Their banter was a thread that kept her from unraveling. But beneath her teasing, she saw the truth: he was terrified of losing her, terrified of losing the child they hadn't planned but now couldn't imagine living without.
Silvio's protectiveness only grew. He ordered an entire wing of the villa refitted for her comfort: softer lighting, rugs so plush her bare feet sank into them, curtains that could block out the sharpest sunlight when she needed rest. Chefs were instructed to prepare meals around her changing cravings—sometimes strawberries dipped in dark chocolate at midnight, other times plain salted crackers she demanded half-asleep.
And he never once complained.
One evening, Rose caught him watching her as she sat curled on the couch, a blanket draped around her shoulders, sipping peppermint tea. His gaze was intense, not just loving but… reverent.
"What?" she asked softly, cheeks warming under the weight of it.
He shook his head, leaning forward to press a kiss to her knuckles. "I don't think you realize what you've given me. I've built empires, destroyed enemies, ruled from shadows… but this—" his hand drifted to her stomach, protective and tender "—this is the only legacy that matters."
Her heart clenched. She wanted to believe in the safety he promised, but the memory of blood on their bed still lingered in her mind. Eleanor—or whoever was behind that threat—was still out there. Waiting. Watching.
Her moods shifted as quickly as the tide. Some days, she felt euphoric, laughter bubbling from her chest as she teased Silvio, even daring to steal his cigar one night just to see his expression. Other days, she was restless, snapping at him for fussing too much, demanding space only to find herself seeking his warmth minutes later.
Silvio bore it all. If she lashed out, he simply raised a brow, unshaken. If she cried, he drew her into his chest, saying nothing, just holding her until her breaths steadied.
"You'll hate me by the time this child is born," she said one stormy night, curled against him while the rain battered the windows.
He tilted her chin up, eyes blazing. "Impossible. Every side of you—the soft, the fierce, the fragile—it's all mine. And I love it. Don't ever doubt that, Rose."
Her throat tightened, words failing her. So instead, she kissed him—slow, lingering, a promise that matched his own.
Still, beneath the tenderness, shadows lingered.
One afternoon, while Silvio was away handling business, Rose wandered through the halls, restless. She found herself in his study again, drawn to the scent of leather and smoke. Her gaze caught on a locked drawer—one she hadn't noticed before.
Curiosity gnawed at her. Her fingers traced the brass handle, heart hammering. Was this where he kept the truths he wouldn't share? About Eleanor? About their families? About why danger always seemed to circle closer?
But before she could decide whether to pry, the door opened. Silvio stood there, his presence filling the room, eyes narrowing slightly as they fell on her.
"Looking for something, La Fiora?"
Heat rushed to her cheeks. "I was… just wandering."
He crossed the room in two strides, his hand sliding to her waist, pulling her flush against him. His lips brushed her temple, but his words were edged with warning. "Some doors are locked for a reason. Trust me when I say… what's inside won't bring you peace."
Rose nodded, though her heart twisted with suspicion. She wanted to trust him, and she did—but she also knew he kept parts of himself hidden, buried beneath layers of power and blood.
That night, when they lay in bed, his arm draped over her and his hand splayed protectively across her stomach, she whispered, "Promise me something."
His eyes opened, sharp even in the dark. "Anything."
"No matter what happens—no more secrets. Not from me. Not from our child."
Silvio was silent for a moment. Then he kissed her forehead, lingering there. "I promise, Rose. As long as you promise to stay alive for me."
Her lips trembled into a small smile. "I'll try."
He tightened his hold. "Not try. Do. Because without you… I am nothing."
The rain outside softened, and Rose drifted into sleep against his chest, torn between warmth and unease.
Because she knew—no matter how much Silvio loved her, no matter how tender his care—shadows still prowled their world. And sooner or later, the blood on their bed would demand to be answered.