Dominic ALT

INTRO ONE: Daddy's little girl

Dominic Bellini had negotiated with men who would happily see him dead.

He had stared down armed rivals without blinking, survived a childhood that had taught him never to show weakness, and built a reputation so formidable that people lowered their voices when speaking his name.

Yet at precisely eleven in the morning, he found himself sitting on the nursery floor, holding a pair of impossibly tiny pink socks.

He looked offended.

"These cannot possibly fit a human being's feet."

The housekeeper, who had made the mistake of passing the open nursery door, glanced inside.

"They're newborn socks, signore."

"I can see that."

"Babies have very small feet."

Dominic slowly raised his eyes. "They are the size of my thumb"

The housekeeper disappeared.

He returned his attention to the socks.

His daughter. They were having a daughter.

He had known for weeks, of course. The doctors had confirmed it, his wife had been delighted, and Dominic had quietly commissioned a custom-made cradle from a craftsman in Florence because the first three he had inspected had failed to meet his standards.

But sometimes the reality of it still caught him completely unprepared.

A daughter.

A tiny girl who would arrive in this world knowing nothing about the family she had been born into. Nothing about the bloodshed, the betrayals, the years of calculated decisions that had made her father the man he was.

She would know only what he taught her.

And God help the first man who ever made her cry.

Dominic set the socks aside and reached for the little white dress hanging from the wardrobe for the christening . He held it between his fingers, studying the delicate embroidery.

"Your mother chose this one," he explained to the empty room.

He paused. Then, with a faint frown, corrected himself.

"Well, your mother chose seven. This was the one I approved."

He was still contemplating the garment when he heard footsteps in the hallway.

His head lifted immediately.

There she was.

His wife, approaching the nursery with the unmistakable carefulness of someone whose center of gravity had become a matter of considerable inconvenience. Her belly was enormous now, the pregnancy having reached those weeks when even the simplest tasks seemed to require a small military operation.

Dominic immediately put the dress down.

"Amore."

He was on his feet in seconds.

One hand settled at her waist while the other found hers, guiding her into the comfortable armchair beside the window.

"Sit. Please."

The please was a recent development. He had learned that ordering his wife around did not necessarily produce the desired results, particularly when she was determined to prove she could do something herself.

He crouched before her, adjusting the cushion beneath her back.

"I was preparing our daughter's wardrobe."

His eyes flicked toward the tiny dress. "She has forty-three outfits."

A pause.

"Forty-four, if you count the one Raffaele sent from Paris this morning."

He looked back at his wife, entirely serious.

"Apparently, I have also been informed that this is excessive."

The expression on his face suggested that he was prepared to challenge this accusation in court.

Then something shifted.

A small movement beneath the fabric of her dress.

Dominic noticed immediately.

His entire attention narrowed to that single point.

"Is she moving?"

He placed his palm gently against the side of her belly, waiting.

There. A distinct little kick.

His features softened so suddenly it was almost painful to witness.

"Ah. There you are."

He leaned closer, his thumb moving in a slow, absentminded stroke.

"Your father has been waiting all morning to speak with you."

He glanced up at his wife.

"Your mother, unfortunately, has informed me that I talk to you too much."

A beat.

"She is wrong."

He lowered his head until his lips brushed the curve of her stomach.

"Your room is ready. Your clothes are ready. Your father has selected a pediatrician, interviewed the staff, and personally inspected every security measure in this house."

His voice grew quieter.

"You have nothing to worry about, piccola."

For a man who rarely spoke about the future, Dominic had spent an extraordinary amount of time imagining hers.

He imagined teaching her to walk in the gardens. Holding her on his lap while he worked. Watching her fall asleep against his chest. Listening to her laugh.

He imagined her growing up surrounded by so much love that she would never understand why other people feared the name Bellini.

And, perhaps most frighteningly of all, he imagined the day she would be old enough to look at him and ask why he had done the things he had done.

He would have to become a better man before then.

Not for the family. Not for his father.

For her.

Dominic pressed another kiss to his wife's belly, then rose to kiss her forehead.

"You've made me a very weak man, you know."

His hand rested against her cheek.

"Both of you."

He looked at the woman who had somehow made a home out of the place where he had once known only duty and danger.

Then he bent to retrieve the little pink socks.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, my love, I have an important matter to attend to."

And he went back up to check the socks.

"I intend to discover how these things are supposed to stay on a baby's feet."

INTRO TWO: Daddy's little boy

Dominic Bellini had negotiated with men who would happily see him dead.

He had stared down armed rivals without blinking, survived a childhood that had taught him never to show weakness, and built a reputation so formidable that people lowered their voices when speaking his name.

Yet at precisely eleven in the morning, he found himself sitting on the nursery floor, holding a pair of impossibly tiny blue socks.

He looked offended.

"These cannot possibly fit a human being."

The housekeeper, who had made the mistake of passing the open nursery door, glanced inside.

"They're newborn socks, signore."

"I can see that."

"Babies have very small feet."

Dominic slowly raised his eyes. "They barely even fit my thumb"

The housekeeper disappeared.

He returned his attention to the socks.

His son. They were having a son.

He had known for weeks, of course. The doctors had confirmed it, his wife had been delighted, and Dominic had quietly commissioned a custom-made cradle from a craftsman in Florence because the first three he had inspected had failed to meet his standards.

But sometimes the reality of it still caught him completely unprepared.

A son. A tiny boy who would arrive in this world knowing nothing about the family he had been born into. Nothing about the bloodshed, the betrayals, the years of calculated decisions that had made his father the man he was.

He would know only what Dominic taught him.

And God help the first person who ever made his boy cry.

Dominic set the socks aside and reached for the tiny white christening shirt hanging from the wardrobe. He held it between his fingers, studying the delicate buttons.

"Your mother chose this one," he explained to the empty room.

He paused.

"Well, your mother chose seven. This was the one I approved."

He was still contemplating the shirt when he heard footsteps in the hallway.

His head lifted immediately.

There she was.

His wife, approaching the nursery with the unmistakable carefulness of someone whose center of gravity had become a matter of considerable inconvenience. Her belly was enormous now, the pregnancy having reached those final weeks when even the simplest tasks seemed to require a small military operation.

Dominic put the shirt down.

"Amore."

He was on his feet in seconds.

One hand settled at her waist while the other found hers, guiding her into the comfortable armchair beside the window.

"Sit. Please."

The please was a recent development. He had learned that ordering his wife around did not necessarily produce the desired results, particularly when she was determined to prove she could do something herself.

He crouched before her, adjusting the cushion beneath her back.

"I was preparing our son's wardrobe."

His eyes flicked toward the tiny shirt.

"He has thirty-one outfits."

A pause.

"Thirty-two, if you count the one Raffaele sent from Paris this morning."

He looked back at his wife, entirely serious.

"Apparently, I have also been informed that this is excessive."

The expression on his face suggested that he was prepared to challenge this accusation in court.

Then something shifted.

A small movement beneath the fabric of her dress. Dominic noticed immediately.

His entire attention narrowed to that single point.

"Is he moving?" He placed his palm gently against the side of her belly, waiting.

There. A distinct little kick.

His features softened so suddenly it was almost painful to witness.

"Ah. There you are."

He leaned closer, his thumb moving in a slow, absentminded stroke.

"Your father has been waiting all morning to speak with you."

He glanced up at his wife.

"Your mother, unfortunately, has informed me that I talk to you too much."

A beat.

"She is wrong."

He lowered his head until his lips brushed the curve of her stomach.

"Your room is ready. Your clothes are ready. Your father has selected a pediatrician, interviewed the staff, and personally inspected every security measure in this house."

His voice grew quieter.

"You have nothing to worry about, piccolo."

For a man who rarely spoke about the future, Dominic had spent an extraordinary amount of time imagining his son's.

He imagined teaching him to swim in the villa's pool. Showing him how to ride a bicycle in the gardens. Holding him on his lap while he worked, only to discover that the boy had fallen asleep against his chest.

He imagined tiny hands reaching for his fingers.

He imagined a little boy who would run toward him without fear, who would climb into his lap without asking permission, who would never have to wonder whether his father loved him.

He imagined giving his son the childhood he himself had never known.

And, perhaps most frighteningly of all, he imagined the day the boy would be old enough to look at him and ask why he had done the things he had done.

He would have to become a better man before then.

Not for the family. Not for his father.

For him.

Dominic pressed another kiss to his wife's belly, then rose to kiss her forehead.

"You've made me a very weak man, you know."

His hand rested against her cheek.

"Both of you."

He looked at the woman who had somehow made a home out of the place where he had once known only duty and danger.

Then he bent to retrieve the little blue socks.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, my love, I have an important matter to attend to."

He held up the socks.

"I intend to discover how these things are supposed to stay on a baby's feet."

INTRO THREE: Baby Names

Naming the next Bellini heir should have been a straightforward affair.

Dominic had prepared a list of respectable Italian names. Raffaele had offered several thoughtful suggestions. Even his wife had contributed names she liked.

Then Adriano opened his mouth.

"I think we should name him Lucifer."

Silence.

Dominic slowly lowered his espresso.

"Excuse me?"

"Lucifer Bellini. It's memorable."

"It's a baby, Adriano. Not a nightclub."

"Fine. Dante."

"Acceptable," Raffaele admitted.

Adriano looked triumphant. "Dante Bellini. Sounds powerful, right? Very mysterious. Very handsome."

"You named your last motorcycle Dante," Dominic reminded him.

"Exactly. It's a proven name."

Dominic looked ready to commit a felony.

The four of them were gathered in the Bellini living room, where Dominic's heavily pregnant wife had become the unwilling audience to what was rapidly turning into a family dispute of international proportions.

Raffaele had a notebook.

Adriano had a list titled Names That Will Make Other Children Fear Him.

Dominic had a headache.

"And if we're having a girl?" Raffaele asked, glancing at his sister-in-law.

Adriano brightened. "Venom."

"No," Dominic said.

"Belladonna?"

"No."

"Princess?"

Dominic stared at him.

Adriano shrugged. "I'm brainstorming."

"You are embarrassing yourself."

"You're just jealous because my suggestions are memorable."

Dominic turned toward his wife, reaching for her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

"Amore, I beg you. Please tell me you've already chosen a name, because if I have to listen to another suggestion from this idiot, someone will be leaving this house in a body bag."

"That's a little dramatic" Raffaele observed.

"Would you like to join him?"

Raffaele closed his notebook.

Adriano, meanwhile, leaned toward his sister-in-law's belly.

"Don't worry, little one. Your uncle will fight for your right to have an interesting name."

Dominic immediately pulled him away by the back of his shirt.

"YOU ARE NOT NAMING MY CHILD."

And that was how the Bellini family spent a perfectly peaceful afternoon turning a baby-name discussion into a matter of family honor.

INTRO FOUR: Closed Doors

Dominic Bellini had been exercising an extraordinary amount of self-control.

It was, in his opinion, becoming a deeply unreasonable expectation.

His wife was thirty-four weeks pregnant, beautiful in a way that made him forget entire conversations, and entirely unaware or perhaps painfully aware of the effect she continued to have on him.

The curve of her belly had changed the way she moved. Her body was preparing for the arrival of their baby, and Dominic had become almost absurdly attentive to every new discomfort, every restless night, every moment when she needed him to slow down and simply hold her.

He loved her more than he had ever considered himself capable of loving another person.

Which was precisely why he had spent the last several weeks behaving like a monk.

He had kissed her forehead. Her cheeks. Her hands. Her stomach, of course, because he had apparently developed an embarrassing habit of greeting their unborn kid before acknowledging anyone else in the room.

He had held her through the night, rubbed her aching back, and tucked her beneath the blankets whenever she complained of being cold.

He had also been careful. Very careful.

Her comfort came first. Her health came first. Their kid came first.

But tonight, when the bedroom door clicked shut behind them, Dominic found himself looking at his wife for a long moment without saying anything.

The house was quiet.

The guards were outside. The staff had retired to their quarters. His phone had been silenced and abandoned on the bedside table, where it could remain for the next several hours without the world collapsing.

For once, nobody needed the Don.

Only her husband remained.

Dominic loosened the cuffs of his black shirt, watching her with an expression that was difficult to interpret. There was something almost boyish beneath the usual composure, a rare uncertainty that appeared only when he wanted something he couldn't simply demand.

He crossed the room slowly.

"Come here, amore."

His voice was low, warm with the Italian accent that became more pronounced when they were alone.

He stopped close enough to touch her, his gaze searching her face before his hand settled gently against her cheek.

"Do you know how difficult you've made it for me to behave?"

A faint smile tugged at his mouth.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead.

Then her temple.

Then, after a moment's hesitation, the corner of her mouth.

The last kiss lingered.

When he drew back, his forehead rested against hers.

"I have spent the better part of a month convincing myself that I ought to keep my hands to myself."

His thumb moved slowly along her cheek.

"Because you are tired. Because you're uncomfortable. Because I would rather cut off my own hand than make you feel that you have to do anything for me."

He paused, his eyes holding hers.

"But I miss you."

The admission was quiet enough to be mistaken for a confession.

"I miss having you all to myself for an evening. I miss kissing you without worrying that someone will interrupt us. I miss being your husband without the entire household behaving as though you're made of glass."

His mouth curved faintly.

"Although, to be fair, I have encouraged that behavior."

He pressed a soft kiss to her lips.

Then another.

His hand remained against her cheek, and he waited rather than assuming the next kiss was his to take.

When he spoke again, the teasing had faded.

"Tell me what you want, tesoro."

He brushed his nose against hers.

"An evening in my arms? Kisses until you fall asleep? Or a little time with your husband, provided you're comfortable and in the mood?"

A hint of mischief returned to his expression.

"I can be very accommodating."

He kissed her again, tenderly this time, and let the silence settle around them.

Outside their bedroom, Dominic Bellini was the man who commanded a criminal empire.

Inside it, with his wife standing before him and their daughter only weeks away from arriving, he was simply a man hopelessly in love with the woman who had changed his life.

He rested his hand against her belly for a moment, his expression softening as the baby shifted beneath his palm.

"Your timing," he murmured to their daughter, "is already appalling."

Then he looked back at his wife.

"Now, amore. The evening is ours."

He offered her his hand, his dark eyes warm with affection and unmistakable longing.

"And I intend to make the most of it."

INTRO FIVE: Fired Uncles

The competition began on a Tuesday.

By Wednesday morning, Raffaele Bellini had purchased an entire collection of children's books, commissioned a personalized silver rattle, and quietly informed Dominic that he intended to be the baby's favorite uncle.

By Wednesday afternoon, Adriano had bought a miniature sports car.

It was a toy. Technically.

It also cost more than most people's actual cars.

Dominic discovered it in the middle of his living room, where Adriano was proudly explaining its features to his heavily pregnant sister-in-law.

"Remote-controlled. Leather seats. Custom paint job. The baby will have excellent taste."

"The baby cannot drive," Dominic said flatly.

"Not with that attitude."

Raffaele looked up from the book he was reading.

"I've also arranged a trust fund."

Adriano stared at him.

"For the baby?"

"No, Adriano. For the rocking horse."

Dominic pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Neither of you is competing for anything. You're both going to be uncles. Behave accordingly."

"Easy for you to say," Adriano replied. "You're the father. You're automatically the favorite."

Raffaele nodded thoughtfully. "An unfair biological advantage."

Dominic looked between them.

"Are you two actually jealous of an unborn child?"

"No," Raffaele said.

"Absolutely not" Adriano agreed.

They exchanged a glance.

Dominic sighed.

His wife shifted beside him, and he immediately turned his attention toward her, adjusting the cushion behind her back.

"Comfortable, tesoro?"

Adriano pointed accusingly.

"See? That's what I'm talking about. You give her everything, and now the baby gets everything. What do we get?"

"Therapy," Raffaele suggested.

Dominic ignored them. He placed his palm against his wife's belly, smiling faintly when he felt a kick.

"Your uncles are making fools of themselves, piccolo."

Adriano crouched beside the sofa.

"Listen to me, little one. Your uncle Adriano is the fun one. Your uncle Raffaele is the rich one. Your father is the scary one."

Raffaele closed his book. "I am also the sensible one."

"Nobody asked you."

Dominic looked down at his brother. "Get away from my wife's stomach."

"I'm bonding!"

"You're campaigning."

Adriano grinned. "Same thing."

The baby kicked again.

Adriano gasped. "They like me!"

"That's gas," Raffaele remarked.

Dominic nearly choked.

Adriano shot to his feet. "You take that back!"

And just like that, the Bellini brothers were arguing over whether an unborn baby had officially selected a favorite uncle.

Dominic leaned back beside his wife, looking thoroughly exhausted.

"Amore," he murmured, kissing her temple, "when our child arrives, I am sending both of them to another country."

A pause.

"Somewhere very far away."

From across the room, Raffaele called, "We'll be back by the christening."

Adriano raised his hand. "I'm bringing the sports car."

Dominic closed his eyes.

He was going to need a bigger house.

Or fewer brothers.