Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

VEGAS' POV (TWENTY SOMETHING YEARS AGO)

He was never supposed to matter.

Just another pretty face. Just another threat.

We’d been bleeding men for weeks—someone was feeding intel to the cops. Someone soft. Someone nobody would look at twice as a mole,..

So I had them bring him in.

Pete.

Fresh-faced. Nervous. Too clean for our world.

He looked like someone who folded laundry on Sundays and kissed his mom goodnight. Too soft for the streets. Too perfect to trust.

So I tied him up in the basement and beat him until I was sure he’d either crack or beg.

But he didn’t.

Not like the others.

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t scream.

He just looked at me with those damn doe eyes, blood running down his face, lip split—and dared me to do worse.

And I think—That was the moment I fell in love.

Not gently. Not romantically.

I crashed.

Because what kind of man falls in love with someone he’s got chained to a chair?

A man like me.

PETE'S POV

I thought he was going to kill me.

I was convinced.

I didn’t beg—not because I was brave, but because I was angry.

Angry he thought I was stupid enough to betray him.

I wasn’t a mole.

I was an intern.

An intern with bad timing and worse judgment.

But somehow—somewhere between punch number six and the point where I should’ve passed out; I saw it.

The look.

He was unraveling.

Not because I wouldn’t talk.

But because I was still there.

And I wasn’t scared of him anymore.

I think,

That’s the moment I owned him.

We don’t talk about the beginning.

We just are.

A quiet war that never really ends.

I love him like a fire I never wanted but can’t stop feeding.

He follows me like a man who once lost control and never wants to again.

He kissed me for the first time in that basement.

Bloody. Shaking. Possessive.

I kissed him back.

And now we’re married with twin boys.

He still sharpens his knives before dinner.

And I still sleep better when he’s pressed against my back, arm around my chest, whispering,

“If you try to leave me, I’ll kill us both.”

And I say,

“Then don’t let me leave.”

Pete’s POV — Twins, Age 5

The twins are fighting over who gets to carry the last shopping bag.

Rome’s tiny fists are clutched around the plastic handle, dragging it half on the floor, while Venice walks next to him, hands stuffed in his pockets like he doesn’t even care but his little mouth is set in that stubborn line that means trouble is brewing.

I let them bicker. Quietly.

They’re five. That’s practically a full-time argument.

I shift the bigger bags onto my other arm, nudging the front door open with my foot. The house smells like rich leather and something sharper underneath. Guns. Blood. Polished marble. Money. Home.

Rome darts ahead into the foyer, and I call after him, "Shoes off first!"

He kicks them off mid-run. Close enough.

Venice slips his off carefully at the door, lining them up neatly. His gaze darts around automatically  scanning the house the way Vegas taught him before following his brother down the hall.

I shake my head, smiling a little.

They’re too young to be so... aware.

I drop the bags by the stairs and make my way toward Vegas' office. It’s late afternoon. He should be back from the meeting by now.

The heavy oak door is cracked open.

I push it open wider with a knuckle.

Vegas is inside, half-slouched in his chair, one leg kicked out, a cigarette burning between his fingers. His jacket’s thrown over the back of the chair, sleeves rolled up, tie loose.

And across from him, perched on the corner of the desk, is Karin.

Vegas’ right-hand man.

Loyal, lethal, and Unfortunately—Good with kids.

Venice runs straight toward Karin without hesitation, clutching the toy gun I told him he couldn’t bring into the store, like he’s about to start a mafia takeover.

Karin leans down and catches him mid-run, lifting him easily into the air.

“Did you conquer the world, little boss?” Karin teases, tossing him once and catching him again.

Venice beams — a real, rare smile and wraps his arms around Karin’s neck.

Rome clambers up after him, babbling something about cupcakes and who won the race back to the house.

Vegas watches them, face mostly unreadable.

But I see it.

The faint softening around his mouth.

The way his hand lowers the cigarette slightly so the smoke doesn’t drift toward the boys.

He doesn’t say anything.

He never does when it’s like this.

I lean against the doorframe, feeling the weight of the day fall off my shoulders.

Family.

Ours.

Messy. Dangerous. Ours.

Karin catches my eye, and with a tiny, knowing smirk, he says, "Come on, little terrors. Let’s let Dad and Papa talk without an audience."

Venice frowns. "But I wanted to show Dad my gun."

Vegas raises one eyebrow. "Later," he says, voice smooth.

Venice considers. Then nods solemnly, as if they’ve struck some secret mafia bargain.

Rome just whines a little until Karin scoops him up too.

I mouth thank you as Karin hauls them both out like two unruly sacks of sugar.

The door swings shut behind them.

Silence falls.

Vegas leans back in his chair, eyes lazily dragging over me from head to toe.

"You were gone a long time," he says, voice low.

I arch an eyebrow, dropping my keys onto his desk. "You try shopping with your sons and see how fast you move."

A slow smirk curves his mouth.

"Maybe I should’ve sent security."

"They’d have mutinied," I say dryly.

He laughs — soft, real — and it cuts the distance between us like a knife.

I cross the room in three steps.

He catches me by the hips before I can even sit properly on the desk, tugging me forward until I’m standing between his legs.

"You’re home," he murmurs, dragging the backs of his fingers lightly down my spine.

"Yeah," I breathe. "I'm home."

Vegas’ POV 

Pete’s weight settles against me easily, one knee braced against the desk, arms draped lazily over my shoulders.

He smells like city dust and sugar.
And something softer.
Something safe.

I rest my hands on his hips, thumbs brushing lazy circles against the worn denim of his jeans.

The boys' laughter echoes faintly down the hall, muffled by thick walls and thick carpet.

It should feel distant.

It doesn't.

It feels like it's stitched into the walls. Into me.

I tip my head back, looking up at him.

“You’re tired,” I say.

He snorts. "You’re observant."

I smile. A real one. Small and private.
The kind I only learned how to make because he stayed long enough to teach me.

He drags his fingers through my hair, slow, lazy.

For a while, we don't talk.

We just... breathe.

I think about the life we built.

Brick by bloody brick.

This house.
These boys.
This strange, stubborn love that never bowed, even when it should have.

I think about Rome — all heart and chaos, loud and too soft for this world.

I think about Venice — silent storms tucked into tiny bones, watching everything, carrying too much already.

I think about how Pete holds them like they’re still small enough to carry forever.
And how I train them like I know someday I’ll have to let them fight without me.

It’s a good life.

Better than I ever thought I deserved.

Better than Pete should’ve ever risked building with a man like me.

My hands drift up his sides, mapping familiar territory.

He leans into it, smiling without looking at me.

“Thinking too loud again," he murmurs.

“Maybe.”

He presses a soft kiss to my temple.

It would be easy, in a moment like this, to let the memories drift further back.

To where it started.

To the mistakes.
The blood.
The chains.

The first time I met him — scared but furious, beautiful even through the bruises, fighting me even when he should have begged.

But we never talk about that.

We don’t think about that.

We agreed, a long time ago, without saying it out loud: The beginning doesn’t matter.

Only this does.

This house.
These boys.
This life built in the wreckage.

“Hey,” Pete murmurs against my ear. “Stay with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

"Promise?"

I tighten my arms around him.

“Promise.”

Outside, the world spins without us.

Inside, I hold the only things I’ll ever need.

And I think , If there’s blood on our hands, at least there’s love too.

Pete shifts in my lap, slow and teasing, that little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth — the one that always promises trouble.

"You’re thinking too much, you should be thinking about me" he murmurs against my ear.

His fingers trail down my chest, slow and deliberate, dragging sparks in their wake.

I hum low in my throat, tipping my head back to give him better access. His mouth finds the line of my jaw, warm and familiar.

The chair creaks as I pull him closer, one hand sliding under the hem of his shirt, fingertips skimming the bare skin of his waist.

He sucks in a sharp breath and I know exactly where this is headed.

Finally.
Finally, a moment to ourselves.

I kiss him, hard, catching that soft sound he makes in the back of his throat.

He shifts again, bracing his knees on either side of me, grinding down just enough to-

BANG.

The office door slams open so hard it rattles the frame.

We freeze.

I pull back half an inch, blinking.

Pete groans against my forehead. "No."

Tiny feet pound across the carpet.

"Papa!" Rome wails, running full-speed into the room.

Venice follows at a much calmer pace, holding a mangled stuffed dragon by one ear like a hostage.

Rome launches himself bodily into Pete’s side, nearly knocking him off my lap.

Pete catches him with an exhausted grunt.

“What happened?” Pete manages, voice strangled somewhere between parental concern and desperate arousal shutdown.

Rome sniffles, wiping his nose on Pete’s shirt without shame.

“Venice said the dragon has to sleep outside with the koi fish!” he cries.

Pete sighs deeply. Looks up at the ceiling like he’s questioning every life choice that brought him here.

Venice shrugs from the doorway. "I said it could. If it wanted to."

Pete glares at him.

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing.

Rome clambers fully into Pete’s arms, squishing himself between us like a starfish.

The moment is dead.

Dead, buried, and cremated.

Pete shifts, awkward and pinned, shooting me a helpless look over Rome’s head.

I smirk and lean back in the chair, arms draped lazily over the armrests.

“You were saying?” I murmur.

He mouths I hate you at me.

I wink.

Venice pads closer, eyeing the mess of limbs suspiciously.

"Can I sleep here too?" he asks.

Pete doesn’t even hesitate.

He grabs him under one arm, yanks him into the chaos pile, and settles both boys across us like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And somehow—It is.

I tuck one arm around Venice’s back. Feel Rome’s sticky hand grab my sleeve.

Family.

Loud. Messy.
Interrupting.
Mine.

Pete catches my eye over their heads and smiles.

Small.

Real.

Unbreakable.

Maybe later we’ll finish what we started.

Maybe not.

Doesn’t matter.

This is better.

Pete’s POV 

It happens quietly.

No blood. No noise. No screaming.

Just a still little body in the corner of the hutch.

I find him first, during the morning chaos of breakfast and half-tied shoelaces.

The boys are upstairs, arguing about who gets the blue socks.

I crouch by the rabbit hutch, heart sinking as soon as I see the way Bluey isn’t moving.

I don’t touch him at first.

Just… look.

The air smells too sweet. Too still.

Bluey had been part of the family for almost two years — a soft, white rabbit with grey ears, more spoiled than any mafia heir had a right to be.

And now he’s gone.

I stand up slowly, brushing my hands on my jeans.

I should tell them.

I have to.

My stomach twists.

I find Vegas where he always is this time of morning — in his office, sleeves rolled up, glasses perched low on his nose, reading something I’ll never be allowed to touch.

He doesn’t look up when I walk in.

Not until he hears the way I shut the door.

Soft. Controlled.

Wrong.

He glances up then. Sharp. Immediate.

“What happened?” he asks, setting the papers down.

I hesitate.

He sees it.

He’s up and around the desk before I can even blink, hands on my arms, steady.

“What’s wrong?” he asks again, quieter now.

I exhale through my teeth. “It’s bluey.”

His hands tighten fractionally.

“Dead?” he asks, simple as reading a report.

I nod.

He leans back, letting go.

"How?" he asks.

"Old age. Natural," I say. "No blood. No violence. Just... gone."

He nods again. Calm. Practical.

Like it’s weather.

I hate it.

"They don't know yet," I add, voice rough.

I watch him carefully.

Vegas exhales slow, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully.

"You’re going to tell them," he says.

It’s not a question.

"Of course I am," I snap. "They're five. They're not soldiers. They're kids."

He shrugs.

"They need to learn sometime."

"They don't need to learn today," I say sharply.

He arches a brow. "You think death waits for the right time?"

My hands ball into fists at my sides.

"This isn’t about the world we live in, Vegas," I grit out. "This is about them. They deserve to grieve without having it weaponized."

He leans back against the desk, arms crossed.

"You're soft," he says, not cruel. Just... stating a fact.

And it pisses me off more than if he had shouted.

"You're hard," I shoot back. "And that’s why I’m here. That’s why you have me. Because you can't raise them the way you were raised."

His mouth tightens.

"Life is loss, Pete," he says, voice low and sharp. "Better they learn it now. Better they learn that love always ends."

"Not this love," I say fiercely. "Not ours."

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just looks at me — like he’s trying to believe me but can’t quite get there.

Like he’s trying to spare them the only way he knows how: by making them tougher. Harder. Unbreakable.

I move closer.

Rest my hand over his heart, feel it pounding there, too fast, too strong.

"You’re not wrong to want them strong," I say quietly. "But let me teach them how to survive loss without losing themselves."

He closes his eyes briefly.

Like it costs him.

But then — he nods.

Once.

Short and sharp.

"I'll stay out of it," he mutters. "For now."

I press my forehead to his for a second, breathing him in.

"Thank you," I whisper.

The boys’ laughter echoes faintly down the hall.

For now, they’re still innocent.

Still mine to protect.

Still ours to ruin or save.

The boys come tearing down the stairs, Rome holding one sock in each hand, Venice trailing after him like a little shadow.

“Papa, tell him the left sock is mine—” Rome starts.

He stops when he sees my face.

Venice goes still beside him.

Both of them just know.

Because they’re not just normal boys.
They were born to read danger like smoke on the wind.

I kneel down, open my arms, and they both come without a word.

Rome clutches my shirt tight.

Venice stands stiffly against my side.

I don’t rush it.

Just hold them. Breathe with them.

Then I say, very softly, "Bluey passed away, baby."

Rome lets out a soft, sharp cry and buries his face in my chest.

Venice doesn't cry.

He just stares at the hutch, small jaw clenched tight.

I rub circles into Rome’s back, murmuring low comforts he probably doesn’t even hear.

Venice stays silent for a long minute before whispering, "Why?"

His voice is too calm.

Too careful.

Like he’s already trying to fit death into a box he can understand.

I stroke his hair gently.

"Sometimes...bodies get tired, Vee. Even when we don’t want them to. Even when we still love them."

Rome sobs harder.

Venice presses his forehead against my side, small and trembling.

I hold them both tighter.

This is their first real loss.
The first thing they can’t fight or fix.

And there’s nothing I can do to shield them from it.

Vegas’ POV

I watch from the window as Pete kneels by the small patch of garden we picked.

Rome clutches a tiny bouquet of dandelions.

Venice holds the shoebox we buried Bluey in.

Pete murmurs something soft, voice too low for me to hear.

The boys listen like it’s gospel.

They’re learning how to grieve.

I hate it.

Not because I think grief is weak.

But because I know what it does to you. How it eats at your ribs until you carry absence like armor.

Pete looks up and catches me watching.

He smiles — tired, sad, unbreakable.

He’ll teach them how to survive this, I think. Without losing themselves.

I press my hand against the glass.

And for the first time in years, I close my eyes and offer something like a prayer.

Not for vengeance.
Not for blood.
Just for peace.

For them.

For the only thing in this world that’s ever really mattered.

***

I slip into our bedroom, leaving the door cracked open behind me.

Pete’s lying on the bed, curled on his side, facing the door. Awake. Waiting.

He lifts the blanket without a word.

I slide in next to him, pulling him close until his head rests on my chest.

For a while, we just lie there.

Breathing.

Holding.

Both of us too full of things we can't say yet.

Finally, I break the silence.

"Sooner or later," I murmur into his hair, "they’re going to have to face something worse than their rabbit dying."

I feel Pete stiffen in my arms.

I tighten my grip, anchoring him against me even as I feel him pulling back inside himself.

"They're just five," he says, voice raw. "It’s too early."

His fingers clutch the fabric of my shirt.

"They have time," he insists. "Time to grow. Time to be kids. To believe in things that aren’t broken yet."

I close my eyes.

I want to believe that too.

I want to believe we can buy them a few more years of light before the world starts clawing at their soft edges.

But wanting isn't enough.

Not in our world.

"They’re ours," Pete says fiercely. "Not just mafia heirs. Not weapons. They're boys. They're our sons."

"I know," I whisper.

And I do.

God, I do.

It kills me every day.

I shift so I can see his face — the stubborn set of his jaw, the pain burning in his eyes.

"I’ll protect their childhood as long as I can," I promise.

Pete swallows hard.

"And when it runs out," I add quietly, "I'll protect them after that too. Trust me"

He blinks fast, like he's trying not to cry.

I brush my thumb across his cheekbone, slow and steady.

"I’m sorry," I murmur. "I wish the world was softer."

He closes his eyes.

"So do I," he whispers.

I pull him tighter against me, feeling the weight of it settle between us.

The grief.
The love.
The war we’re both fighting with the future.

Outside, the night hums low and dangerous.

Inside this bed, we hold onto each other like it's the only truth left.

Maybe it is.

Pete’s POV

The first light creeps into the room, soft and gold.

I shift under the covers, stretching, warm and tangled with Vegas’ heavy body.

For a second, Just a second,  There’s nothing but quiet.

His hand slides up my side under the blanket, slow and possessive. His mouth brushes my shoulder, unshaven and rough, and I shiver at the scrape.

"Mmm," I hum, arching into him. "Good morning."

His only answer is a low, rough sound,  one that promises trouble.

He moves over me, slow, deliberate, pinning me to the mattress without effort. His thigh wedges between mine. His mouth finds the pulse point behind my ear.

I gasp.

God, finally.

Finally a moment that isn't about death or grief or parenting.

Finally just... us.

He kisses down my throat, lazy and confident, hands sliding lower, pulling at my sleep shirt, baring skin.

I tug at his hair, tugging his mouth back to mine and-

BANG.

The door flies open like it’s been kicked by a SWAT team.

We both freeze, mid-breath.

Tiny feet pound across the carpet.

"Papa! Dad!" Rome yells gleefully.

I barely have time to yank the blanket up before Rome cannonballs straight onto the bed, landing squarely between us with a happy screech.

Vegas groans low against my neck.
Not sexy this time.
Murderous.

Venice follows more quietly, dragging his blanket behind him like a little king surveying his kingdom.

He stops at the foot of the bed, looking vaguely disapproving of all of us.

Rome wriggles under the covers, burrowing himself between Vegas and me like it’s his God-given right.

Venice climbs up more carefully, lying down on my other side.

The weight of them settles over us; small, warm, absolute.

I shoot Vegas a look over Rome's messy  hair.

He stares at the ceiling like he's debating if it’s too late to fake his own death.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

"Morning, Papa," Venice mumbles, already half-asleep again.

"Morning, my loves," I whisper, smoothing Rome's hair.

Vegas lets out a long, exhausted sigh, his hand finding mine under the blanket and squeezing once.

Silent surrender.

This is our life.

Interrupted.

Interrupted forever.

But it’s ours.

After the boys invade the bed, there’s no chance of getting them back to sleep.

Which means there’s no chance of anything else, either.

I groan as Rome bounces on my stomach, laughing hysterically.

"Breakfast, Papa!" he yells directly into my face like I’m eighty and hard of hearing.

Venice just tugs the blanket off both of us, calm as ever, and slides out of bed.

Vegas makes a sound like he's dying next to me, dragging a pillow over his face.

"We should’ve gotten a dog instead," he mutters.

"You'd be a terrible dog dad," I say, kicking him lightly as I stumble out of bed after them.

He grunts and doesn't deny it.

+++

Downstairs is pure chaos.

Rome is climbing onto the kitchen counter trying to reach the cereal.
Venice is standing on a stool making himself toast with terrifying precision.

Vegas sits at the table nursing a black coffee like he’s reconsidering all his life choices.

I slap a hand onto Rome’s waist just as he’s about to fall headfirst into the sink and plop him safely onto a chair.

"Sit," I command.

"Yes, Papa," he chirps.

Venice hands me a piece of burnt toast without comment.

I sigh and take a bite.

Vegas raises an eyebrow over his coffee cup.

"What?" I mutter around a mouthful of charcoal.

"Nothing," he says. "You're just very obedient."

I throw a piece of toast at him.

He catches it easily, smirking.

I love my sons, but they can be a lot and I refuse to let nannies or house-keepers do my job, something Vegas takes pride in reminding me every time.

By the time we get them into semi-clean clothes, pack the lunchboxes, and find Venice's missing shoe that he only wanted to wear (in the freezer, for reasons no one will ever understand), we're already ten minutes late.

I herd them into the car, wrestling with seatbelts as they chatter and argue about who would win in a fight: a dragon or a shark.

Vegas leans against the doorway watching us go, hands in his pockets, smirking.

I stick my tongue out at him.

He mouths good luck back.

Traitor.

On the drive to school, the car finally quiets down a little.

Venice stares out the window, fidgeting with his backpack strap.
Rome hums under his breath, kicking the back of my seat rhythmically.

I glance at them in the rearview mirror.

Two small disasters.

Two pieces of my heart.

I clear my throat.

"Alright, boys," I say, falling into our usual routine. "What do we always remember?"

"Protect each other," Venice says immediately.

"Be kind," Rome chimes in.

"And?" I prompt.

Venice smirks a little. "Don't get caught."

"Venice," I groan, half-laughing, half-resigned.

"It's what Dad says," he says innocently.

I shake my head, biting back a smile.

"Okay, yes, but more importantly," I say, glancing at them again, "have a good day. Listen to your teachers. And remember you’re smart, you’re brave, and you are loved. Always."

Rome beams. Venice ducks his head like he’s embarrassed, but I see the tiny smile he tries to hide.

We pull up to the curb.

I lean back and ruffle their hair one last time before they scramble out of the car.

Venice grabs Rome's hand automatically as they cross the sidewalk.

I watch them go, small backpacks bouncing, heads close together.

Two tiny kings walking into the world.

Still innocent.

Still ours.

For now.

Chapter Text

Pete’s POV — Morning, After School Drop-off

The house is finally quiet.

Too quiet.

I close the front door, toe off my shoes, and sag against it with a groan.

Vegas is sprawled on the living room couch like he owns the world coffee in hand, black as sin. Watching me with that unreadable look like he’s deciding between kissing me or setting me on fire.

He looks unfairly good for a man who parented two mini hurricanes all morning.

I toss my keys onto the side table and cross the room, standing over him.

He quirks an eyebrow up at me.

“Back in one piece,” he says. “Congratulations.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

"And whose fault is it," I say sweetly, "that Venice thinks 'Don’t get caught' is part of his morning affirmations?"

Vegas smirks. Smirks.

“I’m teaching survival skills.”

I poke him in the chest. "You're teaching criminal behavior. To a five-year-old."

He grabs my wrist, tugging me down into his lap in one easy, fluid motion.

I land with a muffled "oomph," legs tangled awkwardly around him.

“Stay,” he says. “You’ve been running around all morning.”

“I was parenting,” I deadpan.

“And now you’re mine.”

He says it low and slow, like it’s a fact of physics. Gravity. Blood. Vegas.

I let him pull me in.

His hand slides around my waist, fingers dipping under my shirt. I shiver. He’s always like this when the house is quiet—possessive, still dangerous even in softness.

“I thought we were going to have breakfast,” I murmur.

“We are.” He kisses the corner of my mouth. “You first.”

His hands are everywhere, his lips familiar and demanding, and I melt, just a little.

"And about Venice, You're complaining now," he murmurs against my neck, "but when he’s fifteen and outsmarting half the board, you’ll be proud."

"You’re impossible," I mutter.

"You love it."

I do.

God help me, I do.

His hand slides up under my shirt, fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against my skin.

I tilt my head, giving him better access, already losing the battle to stay mad when he kisses just behind my ear.

Finally…
Finally…
A moment…

Knock knock.

The door creaks open without waiting for an answer.

"Boss?" Karin calls out.

Vegas groans into my neck.

I shove at his shoulder, scrambling upright as Karin steps fully into the living room,

And P’Pakin follows him.

Pakin.

The man I trust about as far as I could throw a car.

The man I absolutely do not want near my sons.

He strolls in like he owns the place, expensive coat over one arm, sunglasses still on indoors like the dramatic old bastard he is.

“Knew I was interrupting something,” Pakin says with a smirk. “Didn’t know it was that.”

Vegas sits up, smoothing his shirt like it’s not halfway open.

“P’Pakin,” he says, casual. “Didn’t know you were coming by.”

“Figured I’d check in,” Pakin says. “We’ve got business talk. Also—thought I’d see my godson.”

I stiffen immediately, blood icing over.

Vegas straightens lazily, all cold amusement wiped off his face in half a second.

Karin notices the shift in the room and grimaces slightly.

Pakin, oblivious or just too arrogant to care, smiles that oily, self-satisfied smile that always makes my skin crawl.

Vegas sighs under his breath and stands, slinging an arm loosely around my shoulders — like he's anchoring me in place. Like he knows I'm one second away from throwing a lamp at P’Pakin’s head.

Pakin grins like he’s being welcomed into a family reunion. “Pete. Looking radiant as ever.”

I turn to Vegas, jaw clenched. “I told you. I don’t want him in this house.”

Vegas doesn’t look at me. “He’s here for business.”

“I don’t care. He can take his business and leave.”

Pakin tuts. “You wound me.”

I glare. “Not yet.”

Karin shifts beside him, already regretting the morning.

Vegas finally turns, eyes flicking between me and Pakin. “You’re being irrational.”

I laugh—bitter. “You’re really going to say that with him in our foyer and our kids' drawings on the walls?”

“He’s been around since my father. He’s Venice’s godfather.”

“And I’ve been saying for years that I don’t want him around the boys.”

Vegas’ voice goes low. “You don’t get to dictate my past.”

“No. But I should get a say in who walks through the goddamn door when I’m raising your future.”

The tension snaps taut, quiet and razor-sharp.

P’Pakin smiles at me, “It’s been a While I’ve seen Phayu by the way?”

“No.”

He raises an eyebrow.

Vegas turns toward me. “Pete—”

“No,” I say again, sharper now. “You’re not taking him to the house. You’re not playing uncle. I don’t want him near the boys. Near Venice”

Karin shifts like he wants to evaporate.

Vegas sighs—too tired, too calm.

“Pete, it’s Pakin.”

“Exactly,” I snap. “It’s P’Pakin.. The man  who casually jokes about murder over lunch. He may be Venice’s godfather, but that doesn’t mean he gets access.”

Karin clears his throat. “We can reschedule.”

“No,” Vegas snaps, still staring at me. “Let him stay.”

I blink. “What?”

“You stay too,” he adds. “If you’re going to keep accusing ‘PPakin of being a threat, you might as well sit in.”

I blink at him.

Then I laugh. One short, sharp, humorless sound. It slices through the room like a blade.

“I’m not staying,” I say, already turning on my heel.

“Pete—”

“Handle your business, Vegas. Since that’s what this is.”

He doesn’t follow.

Good.

Because if he does, I’m not sure I’ll stop myself from slapping him across his perfect, infuriating face.

I take the stairs two at a time, heart pounding louder than my footsteps. I’m not even angry—furious doesn’t cover it. I’m betrayed. I’m done. I’m still in love with him, and that makes this worse.

The guest room door shuts behind me with a soft click.

And then I exhale.

Slow. Controlled.

Because if I let myself fall apart now, I’ll be exactly what Pakin always saw me as: fragile. Breakable. Replaceable.

I stare out the window. Their little shoes still on the bench by the porch. Venice’s yellow socks. Rome’s missing-the-heel Velcro.

My boys.

I press my forehead against the glass and whisper to no one, “You don’t get to call me irrational when all I’ve ever done is keep this house safe.”

Downstairs, the floor creaks. Voices—muted. Then the low rumble of Vegas’ voice. I don’t need to hear what he’s saying.

I already know the script.

I sink into the armchair and close my eyes.

Let him conduct his empire.

But when it comes to this house?

This family?

I’ll burn it all before I let Pakin near them again.

Vegas’ POV

I let him walk.

Let the echo of his footsteps trail up the stairs like a tantrum on polished wood. Let him slam the door, let him seethe.

Because I had business to finish.

But now?

Now the house is quiet again.

And quiet with Pete is never good.

I climb the stairs slowly, deliberately, the sound of my dress shoes a steady reminder: I don’t chase. I never chase.

Except him.

The guest room door is cracked. Weakness. Pete never leaves it open unless—

I push it open.

He’s curled in the armchair, like he’s trying to disappear into himself. His eyes flick to me once, then away. Dismissive.

Mistake.

“You shouldn’t walk away from me,” I say, calm and precise.

He doesn’t respond. Just exhales and shifts to face the window again.

I step further inside, the door clicking shut behind me. “I don’t care if you’re upset. You don’t walk away from me like that.”

His voice is dry. “Like what? Like someone who’s not on your payroll?”

I smile. It's not a kind one. “That tone only works when you’re not hiding in the guest room like a sulking teenager.”

That gets him. He turns, slow, sharp-eyed. “I’m hiding because you brought a man I don’t trust into our house. Around our kids. After I told you not to.”

I cross my arms, lean against the door. “Pakin’s not going to hurt them. He never has.”

“He’s dangerous,” Pete snaps. “You know it.”

“So am I,” I say flatly. “You didn’t seem to mind when I was in between your legs this morning an hour ago.”

He stands up, furious now, all righteous fury wrapped in bare feet and soft cotton. “Don’t you fucking do that. Don’t turn this into sex.”

I take a step closer. “Why not? That’s what you do, isn’t it? Every time you don’t want to talk, you get naked or you run.”

“I don’t run,” Pete hisses.

I’m right in front of him now.

“You did today.”

He’s breathing hard. Jaw clenched. Tears just behind his eyes, maybe. But he’ll never let them fall.

“Vegas,” he says, voice low, dangerous, “you don’t get to lecture me about loyalty when you side with a man who’d sell you for scrap if it suited him.”

I nod. “And you don’t get to pretend you know everything about what I do for this family.”

Pete flinches like I slapped him.

And I regret it the second it lands.

But I don’t say sorry.

I’ve never been good at sorry.

“I run this house,” I say instead, low and lethal. “I run this family. And I don’t need your permission to run my business.”

Pete’s eyes flicker. That hurt him more than anything else I could’ve said.

Still, he says nothing. Just sits back down, slow and quiet, like he’s folding in on himself.

I turn to go. Stop at the door.

My voice is quieter this time. Less command, more confession.

“I didn’t let Pakin near the boys. You don’t need to worry about that.”

Silence.

I leave the door ajar when I walk out.

A signal.

I’ll come back.

He always leaves the door unlocked for me.

Even when he’s furious.

Especially when he’s furious.

…

I don’t go far.

Just down the hall, into the office.

Because I could leave. I could walk out and let the house breathe without me in it.

But I don’t.

Because Pete’s upstairs. Angry. Hurt. And I’m... not leaving him alone with that.

Not again.

I shut the office door and press my fingers to the bridge of my nose. The silence here isn’t the same as the rest of the house. This room is all marble and restraint. No photo frames. No toys. Just discipline and empire.

I sit behind the desk and open my laptop.

Working when I’m angry is dangerous.

But not working when Pete is angry? Worse.

The knock is soft.

Karin.

Of course.

He steps in, measured and unsmiling, a folder in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.

“You want scotch instead?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“No,” I mutter, flicking through an email. “I’ve had enough irrational decisions in this house today.”

Karin raises a brow but doesn’t bite.

Instead, he sits.

Waits.

I don’t look up. “You want to say something?”

“I was going to ask if everything’s okay.”

“It’s not,” I say plainly. “But that’s irrelevant.”

He nods, leans back in the chair. “He’s angry.”

“No, he’s scared,” I correct. “And when Pete is scared, he gets cruel. And when I’m cruel, he shuts down.”

“You’re both so much work,” Karin mutters.

I glance up, finally.

“Don’t act like you wouldn’t take a bullet for either of us.”

Karin smiles — just a flash. “Not today.”

I close the laptop. “He’ll come down when he’s ready.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

I lean back, arms crossed. “Then I’ll go up. Again.”

Karin studies me. “You didn’t need to bring Pakin today.”

“I always need Pakin.”

“Not into your house.”

“He’s been with this organization since my father’s time. He runs half the underworld. Betting, racing, the circuits, the rings in the northeast, Chiang Rai, Koh Samui—he’s the reason the south hasn’t broken off yet.”

“And none of that justifies him being near your children.”

I go still.

Karin’s voice is quiet now. “You’re not wrong, boss. But neither is Pete.”

I don’t answer.

I don’t have to.

Because Karin knows me too well. He knows that I chose to work from here today—not the club, not the office—for one reason:

Pete.

He’s always the reason.

Karin stands, glancing toward the stairs. “You should talk to him before he convinces himself you won’t.”

I don’t move. Just say, “Let me sit with being the villain a little longer.”

Karin exhales. “As long as you don’t get used to it.”

He closes the door on his way out.

And I sit there.

Staring at the faint scratch on the desk Pete made two years ago when he was bored and pretending not to wait for me to come home.

The scratch is still there.

I never had it buffed out.

…

The silence stretches.

I last thirty minutes.

Thirty minutes of pretending to work. Thirty minutes of sitting behind my desk surrounded by money and maps and blood-stained ledgers while upstairs, the man I built this life with is hiding from me.

And maybe I deserve it.

But that doesn’t mean I can stand it.

I push out of the chair, ignore the folder Karin left on the corner of my desk, and head upstairs. I check the guestroom first.

Empty.

I frown.

Then I hear it—low humming, soft fabric shifting, the quiet creak of tiny dresser drawers.

The boys’ room.

Of course.

I push the door open gently and there he is: Pete, sitting cross-legged on the floor, folding Rome’s miniature jeans with surgical precision. The morning sun filters through the rocketship curtains. A stack of folded shirts already towers on one side, and he’s sorting socks like his life depends on it.

“Do we not have hundreds of maids for this?” I ask, leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed.

He doesn’t look up. “And yet somehow none of them can tell the difference between Venice’s Spider-Man shirts and Rome’s Power Rangers.”

I step inside.

He’s wearing one of my old T-shirts. Sleeves too long, collar stretched. His hair’s still a little damp from the shower. There’s a laundry basket beside him, a soft toy shark perched like a guard dog on top of it.

This is the man I tortured. The man I broke and kept.

Folding tiny socks on the floor like love never hurt.

I crouch down across from him. “You’re still angry.”

He pauses, then shrugs. “Not really.”

That’s a lie. But it’s also a gift. Pete never gives forgiveness easily. But he does offer these soft halfway doors—openings I can step through if I’m brave enough.

I glance at the shark. “You know this room still smells like syrup and destruction, right?”

He huffs a laugh. “Venice poured maple syrup in Rome’s shoes two nights ago. Called it tactical revenge.”

“Did he succeed?”

“He got away with it. Rome wants a drone strike.”

I smile despite myself.

Pete finally looks up. His face is unreadable. But his hands don’t stop moving—fold, sort, smooth, repeat. It’s the rhythm that keeps him from crumbling.

I reach forward and pick up one of Rome’s little socks. Red, worn, fraying at the toe.

“Do you want me to send Pakin away?”

Pete exhales. Long. Tired.

“No,” he says finally. “I want you to see why I don’t want him near the boys.”

I nod.

He doesn’t have to say it again.

You run the underworld. I protect the sunlight.

He finishes folding the last pair of socks, sets them gently on the stack, and brushes his palms on his thighs.

“I know you have a kingdom to rule,” he says, voice quieter now. “I’m just trying to keep the dragons from the nursery.”

I reach for his hand.

And this time, he lets me hold it.

His hand is warm in mine. Still tense, but he’s not pulling away.

I watch him — the small crease between his brows, the line his lips make when he’s trying not to say something he knows I’ll hear anyway.

So I ask, softly, “Is this really about Pakin?”

Pete’s jaw ticks.

I shift, just enough to close the space between us. “You’ve never liked him. Not from the start. So don’t tell me it’s just about him being around the boys.”

He doesn’t answer.

So I keep going.

“Yes, Pakin’s intense. Dangerous. But so am I. So is Kinn, Karin. So is every man who’s ever stood in our circle.”

His eyes flash. “You’re not like him.”

“No?” I tilt my head. “Then how’s Karin different?”

That hits. He blinks.

“How,” I press, “is Karin — who ran clean-up for a cartel before I stole him from the Cambodian border any different from Pakin, who runs the underground racing rings and manages half our southern enforcers?”

Pete doesn’t move. But I see it, the tremor just beneath the surface.

He swallows. “Because Karin doesn’t look at our sons like they’re the next generation of weapons.”

I go still.

“And Pakin does?” I ask, voice low.

“Yes.” Pete’s voice cracks like flint. “Pakin looks at them like they’re assets. Bloodlines. He smiles at them, but it never reaches his eyes. Especially Venice”

I take that in.

He’s not wrong. Pakin has always looked at the world in terms of what it can yield. How power passes hands. How legacy gets weaponized.

But so do I.

I sit back on my heels, studying the man in front of me. “And you think I don’t see that?”

Pete’s eyes meet mine — wounded, but unflinching. “I know you see it. I just don’t know if you care.”

The silence that follows isn’t cruel.

It’s worse than that.

It’s honest.

Because I do care.

But I also understand what boys like Venice and Rome are destined for. What we were born for.

Still, I tighten my grip on Pete’s hand.

And I say — not defensive now, not cold — “Then tell me what you want.”

He breathes.

And for the first time all morning, he says, softer now, “I want them to be little. For a while longer.”

Pete’s POV

Vegas doesn't say anything for a while. Just sits there on the boys' carpet, fingers wrapped around mine like we’re not two men who’ve killed for less than this.

I look down at the stack of tiny, folded shirts between us.

Then I say it.

“I know Venice is more like you than me.”

Vegas doesn’t flinch. He never does. But I feel the stillness that overtakes him.

I keep going.

“At five, he’s... different. He sees things differently. Quiet. Calculated. He doesn’t act his age, and he doesn’t react like a child.”

Vegas exhales through his nose, slow.

“He watches before he moves,” I murmur, voice low. “He waits, he calculates. When Rome lashes out, Venice smiles. When other kids cry, he asks questions. When he plays games—he cheats. But not really. Just... rewrites the rules.”

A long pause.

Then I admit it.

“I think he’s going to be brilliant.”

Vegas looks at me now. “But?”

I meet his eyes. “But I think he’s going to scare me.”

The truth is sharp in my mouth. I hate saying it.

Vegas looks away.

So I press forward, gently, like peeling back a wound.

“And I think Pakin sees it too.”

That gets him.

“You think he’ll try to... what?” Vegas asks, voice low, dangerous. “Recruit him?”

“I think Pakin will see Venice not as a boy, not as our son, but as the next version of you,” I say quietly. “And I think Venice will like it.”

Vegas swallows hard.

“He already copies the way you tie your tie,” I add. “Did you know that?”

“No,” he says, after a long pause. “I didn’t.”

“I caught him in the mirror last week practicing your smirk.”

Vegas breathes in like someone stabbed him, but doesn’t look away.

I shift closer, finally releasing his hand just to cup his cheek. “He’s five, Vegas. But he’s not soft like Rome. And I don’t know if that’s good or bad. I just know... I want him to learn how to be kind before he learns how to be king.”

Vegas closes his eyes.

And then—he leans into my touch, forehead pressed to my shoulder.

Soft.

Like only I ever get to see him.

“I’ll handle Pakin,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I’ll handle all of it.”

“Don’t handle it,” I say, brushing my lips against his hair. “Just listen to me.”

His breath shakes. “I am.”

I run my fingers through his hair.

And quietly—almost to myself—I whisper, “Because if Venice turns out like you... I just want to make sure there’s still enough of me in him to save him from it. Or enough of me to recognize when someone like me comes along. The way you have me. So he can find someone too.”

I feel him tense ,  just barely. His breath catches against my collarbone. And for a second, I think I’ve gone too far.

But then,

He exhales.

A deep, slow unraveling of everything he never says.

His voice is a whisper when it comes. “You think you saved me?”

I smile, but it doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “I think someone had to.”

He doesn’t argue.

Because we both know it’s true.

I wrap my arms around him fully now, pulling him closer on that ridiculous space-themed carpet, between tiny socks and forgotten Lego bricks.

“I don’t want him to be alone,” I whisper.

Vegas nods against my chest. “He won’t be.”

“I don’t want him to be just powerful.”

“He won’t be.”

“I want him to be... loved. Held, Vegas. Like this. Like now.”

Vegas pulls back just enough to look at me.

And in the rare, raw stillness of his gaze, I see something I don’t often get from him.

Vulnerability.

“I want that too,” he says.

I nod. “Then let me keep the monsters out of the nursery.”

He smirks faintly. “Even me?”

I kiss his temple. “Especially you.”

We sit there in silence, tangled in laundry and the ache of legacy.

And maybe, just maybe, this is how we save them.

One soft moment at a time.

…

The quiet is still warm when Pete starts to shift, gathering the last of the socks into a neat pile. I should let him go. Let him breathe. Let him feel like the conversation was enough.

But I don’t.

Instead, I reach for his waist, fingers grazing beneath the hem of my old T-shirt he’s still wearing — worn thin from too many nights and too many stolen mornings.

“Still upset?” I murmur, leaning in to kiss the edge of his jaw. “Or are we back to letting me undress you?”

Pete exhales, the sound part fondness, part warning.

“Vegas.”

I press my mouth to his neck. “We’ve got twenty minutes before the house starts spinning again. I could make you forget all about Pakin.”

His laugh is breathy, but he leans away, standing as he goes. “You think too highly of yourself.”

“Not really,” I say, following him up. “Just know what that sound you made meant.”

“I was exhaling,” he says, grabbing the folded laundry like a shield. “That’s called breathing, Phi.”

I grin. “You only breathe like that when you want me.”

He turns at the doorway, cocking an eyebrow. “And yet, I’m still walking away.”

I step forward again, slow. “Come on, baby. Just a little—”

“No.” He cuts me off with a gentle hand to my chest. “I have a lunch date.”

I blink. “With who?”

“Porsche.”

I groan. “God. You and that menace.”

“Mm. He says the same about you.”

“He gets one knife thrown at him and suddenly I’m a menace?”

“He ducked it, didn’t he?”

I roll my eyes, but Pete’s already walking toward the hallway. “And after lunch, I still need to pick up the boys. Coordinate with P’Vine about dinner.”

I follow him. “I’ll have the staff do it.”

He shoots me a look. “That’s not the point.”

“Fine,” I sigh. “But I’m keeping score. You reject me now, you owe me later.”

Pete leans in as he passes me in the hall, lips brushing my ear. “You’re always owed, Phi. But you only collect when I let you.”

Then he walks off.

And I’m left standing in the hallway, slightly aroused, slightly annoyed, and completely his.

Again.

***

Pete’s POV

Porsche is already two cocktails deep when I arrive.

He’s sitting at our usual table in the back corner of the riverside restaurant, sunglasses on, half-buttoned shirt billowing like some retired boyband star on vacation. He waves at me like we’re not being discreet.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls as I sit. “You look like a man who didn’t get laid this morning.”

I glare. “That’s because I didn’t.”

He gasps. Loudly. Dramatically. A woman at the next table turns.

“You mean to tell me Vegas passed up the chance to ravage you before noon? Someone check for signs of stroke. Is he breathing? Does he need resuscitation? Is his dick—”

“Porsche,” I hiss, pulling my sunglasses off. “For god’s sake.”

He grins like the chaos he is. “So what happened? You wearing clothes too modest today?”

I signal for a drink and toss the napkin at him. “He tried. I declined.”

“Ooh. Power play.” He leans in. “Tell me everything.”

I exhale, slumping back. “It’s not a power play. I just... I had stuff to do. The kids, dinner plans, the house, the estate... and honestly? I didn’t want to pretend we were fine yet.”

Porsche goes quiet for a moment — rare, blessed silence — then hums. “So it was a fight.”

“Not a fight,” I say. “A disagreement.”

“Uh-huh. That’s what I call it too when Kinn and I throw vases across the living room and don’t talk for three hours.”

I shoot him a look. “Nobody threw anything.”

“Yet.”

The server drops off my drink, and I take a long sip.

Porsche watches me. “So what did he do this time?”

I swirl the straw in my glass. “Pakin came to the house.”

“Ah.” Porsche leans back with a knowing sigh. “The Demon Uncle.”

“Don’t call him that.”

“Why? It’s true.”

“Because I don’t want the boys repeating it at school.”

Porsche grins. “Fair. So, what — you told Vegas not to, and he did it anyway?”

I nod. “And then he called me irrational for not wanting that man near our kids.”

Porsche whistles. “Oooh. Dangerous words, baby. Especially in your house.”

“I walked away.”

He raises a brow. “You walked?”

“I didn’t throw anything. I walked.”

“Personal growth. I’m proud of you.”

I shake my head. “He came to find me later. Tried to seduce me in the boys’ room.”

“Bold.”

“Pathetic.”

“But also hot.”

I glare. “Porsche.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He grins. “Continue.”

I sigh. “We talked. I told him about Venice.”

That softens him.

“Yeah?”

I nod. “He’s... turning into Vegas. And I’m scared I won’t know how to handle it when it happens.”

Porsche reaches across the table and squeezes my hand — all jokes gone now. “You will. You always do.”

“I don’t want him to grow up too fast.”

“He’s five.”

“And already smarter than both of us.”

“Well, you, maybe,” Porsche snorts.

I throw a chopstick at him.

He catches it midair.

Show-off.

I smile anyway.

Because no matter how complicated the world gets — with empires and bloodlines and men like Pakin slithering through the cracks — I have this.

A lunch. A friend. A place where I can say the truth without dressing it up.

And for now, that’s enough.

Vegas’ POV

My phone rings at 2:07 PM.

Kinn never calls me in the afternoon. Especially not when we’ve got contracts open, a logistics line in limbo, and three judges still needing their monthly “gifts.”

So when his name flashes across the screen, I already know something’s wrong.

I answer with a clipped, “What?”

Kinn doesn’t bother with a greeting.

“Before you say anything, yes — they’re alive, yes — I kept him hydrated, and no - I didn’t let him strip on the sidewalk.”

I pause.

“Kinn.”

“Porsche got your husband drunk at brunch.”

There’s a long, breathless beat.

I glance at the time again.

“It’s Tuesday.”

“Yeah. Apparently, mimosas don’t know that.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Is he okay?”

“He’s giggling and asking if your marble foyer floor feels as cold as your conscience.”

“Fucking hell.”

“We’re ten minutes out. Also—congratulations.”

“For what?”

“You’re doing school pickup today.”

I blink. “I am what?”

“I’d do it, but I don’t want to ruin Phoenix’s rep by showing up in the wrong Ferrari. I figured you or Karin could handle it. Boys should be out in twenty minutes. Phoenix already texted me a thumbs down emoji.”

The line goes dead.

I stare at the phone like it personally betrayed me.

Footsteps approach. Karin leans in through the office door.

“You heard?”

“Apparently, I’m a chauffeur now.”

Karin raises a brow. “You?”

“Do I look like I have time to explain this to the driver?”

“Guess not.”

“Clear my schedule for the next hour,” I mutter, standing. “Make sure the suppliers are occupied before i get back.”

“Already handled.”

I pause at the door.

“And Karin?”

He looks up.

“Make sure Pete doesn’t drown in the tub.”

Karin smirks. “I’ll keep a mop handy.”

Vegas' POV

The school driveway is a parking lot of pastels — mint green hatchbacks, sunshine yellow vans, flower-patterned bumper stickers preaching kindness.

I pull the Bentley into line, the growl of its engine immediately earning side-eyes from every parent in the vicinity. Good. Let them stare.

Bulletproof, matte black, and engineered to withstand a rocket launcher — it looks like it eats Ferraris for breakfast and spits out the bones with contempt.

I inch forward behind a minivan that has a glitter decal reading “I used to be cool.” Tragic.

A woman in a wide hat pulls her kid back as I roll past.

The teacher on duty stiffens when I stop, her clipboard suddenly trembling in her hands. She does a double-take like I’ve pulled into the wrong dimension.

I lower the window with one press.

Sunglasses on. Expression carved from stone.

“Theeranpanyakun,” I say.

She blinks. “Uh—yes! Of course! Venice and Rome.”

I pause. “And Phoenix.”

Another blink. Faster this time. “Y-Yes, sir! Of course, sir. Right away, sir!”

I lean back as she scrambles off.

The window slides up. The chaos of shrieking children remains, but muffled now — like a warzone behind glass.

I glance at my watch.

2:42 PM.

Pete owes me for this.

Not just for getting drunk at brunch with Porsche.

Not just for sending me, personally, into the glitter-smeared trenches of primary school pickup.

But for the fact that one of the boys — probably Rome — will absolutely walk out here and ask me why the other kids don’t have armed guards.

And I’ll have to explain — again — why we’re not like other families.

Because we’re Theeranpanyakun.

And nothing about us is ordinary.

…

The school gate opens, and the tiny chaos begins.

Kids come out in bursts — shoelaces untied, yogurt stains on collars, some still wearing paper crowns from god-knows-what activity.

Then I see mine.

Venice walks out first, perfectly composed, one hand in his pocket, not a wrinkle on his uniform. Five years old going on fifty.

Rome stumbles out next, dragging his backpack, already talking, arms flying wildly.

Phoenix, Kinn and Porsche’s little terror- trailing with a grin like he’s seen something scandalous and is dying to use it as blackmail.

They spot the Bentley and immediately adjust.

Rome waves like he’s hailing a helicopter.

Venice just nods. Like this is expected.

Phoenix raises an eyebrow, amused. Of course he is.

They clamber into the car like a team on a mission, Rome nearly tripping over his own backpack, Venice sliding in like he's above seatbelts, and Phoenix taking the passenger side with the poise of a man twice his age.

Rome yells, breathless. “Dad! Vee did the bad thing again!”

“It wasn’t bad. It was just... funny.” Venice answers calmly.

“What happened?” I ask, pulling away from the curb.

Rome huffs, arms crossed. “He glued googly eyes to all the class pet posters!”

“They looked better that way,” Venice says, calm.

“Even the dead hamster one!” Rome howls.

Venice shrugs. “It was still his face.”

Phoenix snorts into his juice box. “The teacher screamed when she saw the turtle. It had a mustache.”

“It was construction paper,” Venice adds, proud.

I blink. “You did arts and crafts on the walls of the school?”

“They weren’t walls. They were posters.”

Rome leans forward dramatically. “Dad. He brought his own glue. From home. In his sock.”

Phoenix turns to me. “Uncle Vegas. He planned it. Like... before lunch.”

I glance at the rearview mirror. Venice stares back like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“Does your teacher know it was you?” I ask, already calculating.

Venice shrugs. “No”

Just that.

Rome leans forward. “Are we gonna tell Papa?”

“No,” I say too fast. “You’re not going to tell Papa.”

All three look at me.

I clear my throat.

Rome gasps. “Why not?!”

“Because Papa will ask questions. And Venice will give answers. And we’ll all lose screen time.”

“And Phoenix—you’re not telling dads either.”

He smirks. “You have to give us something?”

I turn and fix him with a glare that should silence grown men.

This little shit.

I sigh.

He raises one finger. “Gummy worms. From the nice store. Not the sticky kind.”

Rome’s eyes light up. “AND A CHOCOLATE MILK!”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Fine. But only if you stay quiet.”

Phoenix raises his dramatically. “I swear on my lunchbox.

Rome throws up a pinky. “Mafia promise.”

Venice raises an eyebrow. “I don’t need a promise. I’m not stupid.”

The car glides out of the school line and onto the main road.

I glance in the mirror. Three heirs. Three problems. Each satisfied with their cut of the deal.

Pete’s going to know something happened the second we walk in the door.

And I am going to lie.

Badly.

…

I drop Phoenix off at the Kittisawat house first.

Kim opens the door shirtless, holding a paintbrush and a half-eaten mango.

“He’s fine,” I mutter, nudging Phoenix forward.

Kim squints. “Did he get expelled?”

“Not today.”

“Cool,” Kim shrugs, and takes his neice back like a man collecting a package he forgot he ordered. “Thanks, bro. You coming in?”

“Absolutely not.”

I’m back in the car before Phoenix finishes waving goodbye.

The silence on the drive home is unnatural. Rome hums under his breath, Venice stares out the window like he’s plotting international market collapses, and no one is kicking, shouting, or fighting over which song to play.

Which is how I know I’m already in trouble.

By the time we reach the compound, my sons have perfected the art of pretending they didn’t glue googly eyes to every class pet in their school.

I open the front door, and the scent of something vaguely edible hits me.

Pete is in the kitchen.

Wearing oven mitts.

And a grin that does not reach his eyes.

He’s holding a wooden spoon like a weapon.

“Oh good,” he says sweetly, “You’re home.”

Rome bolts for the hallway.

Venice bows politely and says, “Hi, Papa.”

I freeze.

Pete narrows his eyes.

“They’re being weird,” he announces, turning back to the bubbling dish on the stove.

“They’re five,” I counter.

“They’re never this polite,” he says, stabbing the lasagna like it insulted his bloodline. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Vegas.”

“School was fine.”

“Rome waved goodbye with two hands and didn’t take his shoes off at the door.”

“He’s growing.”

“And Venice kissed my cheek and said I was glowing.”

“You are.”

Pete turns slowly, eyes narrowing into slits. “What. Happened.”

Venice calls from the hallway, “Can we watch TV, Papa?”

Pete blinks. “You didn’t even ask for snacks.”

Rome chimes in, “We already had gummy worms.”

Pete turns back to me.

I clear my throat. “I may have... slightly incentivized their silence.”

Pete stares.

I continue, “Nothing dangerous happened.”

His expression drops flat. “What kind of bribe?”

“Gummy worms.”

“From the nice store?”

“They negotiated.”

He turns off the stove with a dramatic flick. “Vegas. What did our sons do.”

“Venice made... enhancements. To some posters.”

“Enhancements.”

“Creative direction.”

“And what kind of posters were these?”

I take a breath. “Class pets.”

There’s a long silence.

Pete walks over to the table, pours himself a glass of water.

Then another.

Then he calmly says, “Did he glue googly eyes to the dead hamster poster again?”

I blink.

“You knew?”

“I knew.”

I exhale. “He added a mustache to the turtle too.”

Pete groans, collapsing into a chair.

Rome creeps back into the room, hopeful. “Are we grounded?”

Pete sighs. “Not until I finish yelling at your father.”

Rome gives a thumbs up and backs away.

Pete glares at me. “You can’t bribe them, Vegas.”

“I can, and I did.”

“You’re supposed to discipline them!”

“Venice said it was educational.”

“VENICE SAYS A LOT OF THINGS.”

I sit across from him, finally letting the smirk slip through.

“I didn’t want to ruin your buzz.”

“You didn’t,” he mutters. “But you are going to do bath time.”

I nod solemnly. “That’s fair.”

He narrows his eyes. “And I’m drinking during it.”

I blink. “Sweetheart, you were day drinking. That’s why I was tasked with pickup.”

Pete sips without breaking eye contact. “Mimosas aren’t real alcohol.”

“They are when you have five of them and end up asking Kinn if our marble floors feel as cold as my conscience.”

He waves a hand and grins, not sorry at all.

I sigh, standing up. “Just so we’re clear, picking up our sons and Phoenix took me away from very important business.”

“You were in your office planning hostile takeovers and murders’”

“That was the business.”

Pete chuckles into his drink, lazy and satisfied. “You’re doing bath time.”

“While you drink?”

He leans back in the chair, stretching his legs and smiling like the devil himself. “You can be the terrifying mob boss after they’re shampooed and rinsed.”

I groan, dragging myself toward the hallway.

Venice is already in the bathroom.

Fully clothed.

Testing the water temperature with a thermometer he definitely wasn’t supposed to have.

God help me.

Vegas’ POV

It’s just past 2:30 a.m. when I let myself back in from…business

The house is dead silent.

Marble floors cool under my feet. The lights are off except for the dim hallway lamp P’Vine leaves on when Pete falls asleep early. The air smells faintly like lavender and leftover lasagna.

I close the door softly behind me and step out of my shoes.

My shirt is soaked through at the cuff.

Blood, not mine. Probably.

I move quietly; instinct carved into me—don’t wake the house. Don’t disturb the calm. Let the night rest untouched.

I pass the living room.

The boys’ toys still lie scattered under the couch. Rome’s stuffed triceratops on its side like a casualty. The TV remote is face-down on the rug.

I turn toward the stairs.

Then I freeze.

Light spills from the kitchen—bare, soft fridge-glow.

And standing in it is Venice.

Barefoot. In his shark pajamas. Holding a cup of water too big for his hands.

He looks at me.

Not startled.

Just watching.

Like he already heard me come in and was waiting.

I step closer. My shirt is stiff with dried blood at the hem. My knuckles are raw. I still haven’t washed the iron tang out of my mouth.

Venice sips his water.

Then tilts his head.

“Dad, Are you hurt?”

His voice is calm. Small. Unafraid.

I blink.

“No,” I say, my voice low and even. “It’s not mine.”

He nods once.

Then looks down at his cup.

“Okay,” he says.

Not scared.

Just… assessing.

I want to kneel. I want to pull him into my arms and lie. I want to say I’m sorry.

Instead, I move to the sink and wash my hands. Slowly. Rubbing until the red fades to pink, until the heat leaves my skin.

Venice watches every movement.

“You should be asleep,” I murmur, drying my hands.

“I was,” he says. “I got thirsty.”

I nod.

He takes another sip, then holds the cup out to me. “Want some?”

My throat tightens.

I shake my head. “No, Ven. That’s yours.”

He shrugs and drinks the rest.

Then, with a yawn, he turns and pads back toward the hallway—shark pajama feet whispering against the floor.

He stops at the door.

Looks back at me.

“You washed it off,” he says.

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Papa doesn’t like blood in the house.”

My chest pulls tight.

“I know.”

Venice gives a single, satisfied nod.

And disappears down the hall.

I stay in the kitchen for a while after that.

Lights still low. Shirt still wet.

Wishing I didn’t feel so seen.

By a five-year-old.

The house has gone still again.

Venice is tucked back into bed, the night swallowing his footsteps like he was never there.

I head upstairs.

Every step creaks louder than it should. Every breath I take feels like it might wake something I’ve worked too hard to keep sleeping.

I push open the bedroom door.

Inside, it’s dark. Just the faint gold glow of the hallway light leaking through the cracked door.

Pete is curled on my side of the bed. Still wearing one of my shirts. Legs tangled in the blanket. Face pressed into my pillow like he’s trying to inhale what’s left of me.

I strip quietly—shirt, undershirt, pants. The blood has dried stiff in places. My skin itches with the memory of it.

I don’t turn on the lights. I don’t breathe too loud.

I just slide into bed.

Try to ease onto the mattress without making it dip too much. Try not to shift the air too sharply.

But the moment I settle—

He moves.

Pete doesn’t gasp. Doesn’t jolt. Doesn’t sit up.

He just rolls toward me in the dark, slides a hand up my chest, and exhales.

“Done?” he murmurs, voice still gravel-thick with sleep.

“Yeah,” I whisper.

His fingers pause over my collarbone. “You’re cold.”

“I’ll warm up.”

“You smell like iron.”

I don’t say anything.

He inches closer. Tucks his face into my neck.

And even in the dark, even half-asleep, his nose scrunches.

“Vegas.”

“I’ll shower.”

“You said that last time.”

I run a hand over his back, soothing. “It’s not mine.”

Pete goes quiet. Breathes in.

Then lets it go.

He doesn’t ask whose blood it was. He never does.

Instead, he shifts closer, pressing his body to mine. Bone to bone. Scar to scar.

“You saw the boys?”

I nod. “Rome slept through it. Venice got up for water.”

Pete stiffens slightly.

“He saw?”

I hesitate. “He asked if I was hurt. I said no.”

Pete doesn’t move.

Then—so softly I almost miss it—he says, “He’s too calm.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want that for him.”

“I know.”

He tucks his face back into my neck. “Did he believe you?”

“I think so.”

Pete’s voice drops to a murmur. “He always believes you.”

I wrap my arms around him, pull him closer.

“I’m here,” I whisper.

“You always come back,” he says.

And even though he’s half-asleep, I can hear the fear buried in that truth.

I kiss his forehead, let the silence stretch.

Outside, the city pulses. Below us, the house sleeps. And in this bed, wrapped around the only softness I’ve ever trusted—

I let myself rest.

For now.

Chapter Text

Vegas’ POV

The door slams open so hard the wood cracks.

I don't even flinch.

I know that storm-walk. I know the way his shoes hit the floor, too fast, too heavy for Pete. My soft, golden, infuriating husband doesn’t stomp—unless it’s about the boys.

Which means something’s wrong.

I sigh, setting down my cigar, and lean back in the chair. The office smells like smoke and power. I was almost relaxed.

“Let me guess,” I mutter before he even opens his mouth. “Rome got a nosebleed during recess and you want me to donate another library wing to apologize.”

He hurls a paper folder onto my desk. It skids to a stop against my whiskey glass.

Venice’s name is printed neatly at the top.

“Read it,” Pete snaps. “Read it, Vegas.”

I lift a brow. My heart doesn’t spike, not yet. But the way Pete’s shaking—not scared, but furious—puts me on edge.

I open the file.

Then pause.

Then read it again.

Silence blooms heavy in the room.

“He tried to strangle another boy with his shoelaces?” I ask flatly.

“Because the kid pushed Rome into the mud,” Pete says, voice cracking. “He didn’t even wait for a teacher. He just—he got up, walked over, yanked the kid’s laces loose and—”

He breaks off. Runs a hand through his hair. “They said he didn’t blink.”

A beat of quiet.

And then…I laugh.

Soft. Just once.

Pete stares at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“Vegas—”

“Shoelaces,” I murmur, amazed. “That’s almost elegant. Did he get the knot tight?”

“This isn’t funny!”

“Sweetheart,” I say, standing, “he’s five. And he was protecting his twin.”

Pete shakes his head. “You don’t get it. He wasn’t scared. He didn’t even look angry. He just… did it. He sat Rome down and told him to stay clean while he handled it.”

Just like me.

Pete presses a hand to his chest. “I saw him. At the principal’s office. Calm. Cold. And when I asked him why he did it, he said—‘Because Rome was crying.’”

My mouth goes dry.

Because that isn’t something I taught him.

That’s something he is.

I move closer, reaching for Pete’s face, but he pulls back.

“You don’t get to be proud of this,” he says. “Not when he’s turning into you.”

I don’t say what I want to say.

That I’m the reason no one dares look twice at our boys.

That Pete is the reason they believe love means violence with a purpose.

That we made them in our image—his light, my shadows—and now we have to raise both.

“I’ll talk to him,” I promise.

“You’ll scare him,” Pete snaps.

“No,” I say softly. “Venice doesn’t scare easy.”

He grabs my wrist—not hard, not to hurt—but to hold. He always holds me like I’m something that might disappear.

“I don’t want them to end up like us.”

There it is.

My stomach turns.

Because what we have—this sharp, endless, consuming love—it isn’t gentle. It’s not soft. Not sane.

But it’s real.

“Pete,” I murmur, catching his waist with my free hand. “They won’t.”

“You say that,” he whispers, stepping closer, “but you don’t see them. You don’t see how Venice watches your every move. How Rome flinches when you raise your voice.”

My throat closes.

Pete’s hand slides to my chest, resting above my heart like he’s trying to calm it. Or remind me it’s still there.

“I need you to try,” he says.

“I am trying.”

He looks at me then—really looks—and I think he sees it. The exhaustion. The way I claw at control because it’s the only thing that keeps the chaos from winning. The only thing that kept me alive before he walked into my world and ruined it with love.

He presses his forehead to mine.

We stand there, both breathing too hard.

“You’re a good father,” he whispers. “But you don’t know how to be gentle.”

My voice comes out in a whisper “Teach me.”

Pete’s lips quirk. Just barely. “I’ve been trying for years, you stubborn bastard.”

I pull him into my arms, crushing him to my chest.

He lets me.

And we just stay like that. Quiet. Still. Until the world stops spinning.

…

I find him outside.

Pete couldn't stand the idea of making him sit alone in a white office, so he let him out into the garden. Probably thought the fresh air would do something. Calm him. Wash the blood off his soul.

It won't.

I know that too well.

Venice is sitting on the stone wall near the koi pond, swinging his small legs, perfectly still otherwise. His little black school shoes are scuffed. His tie is askew. His grey uniform jacket is too big for his narrow shoulders.

He looks up when he hears my steps.

Not afraid.

Not even surprised.

Just...watchful.

Like me.

I sit beside him without speaking. The koi fish break the surface of the water with small, hollow splashes. It's the only sound between us.

After a long minute, he says, "Papa's mad."

I hum low in my throat. "Not just Papa."

He kicks his heel against the wall, once. "He cried."

"Rome?" I ask.

Venice shakes his head. "Papa."

Something twists hard in my chest.

I glance down at him. His face is a mirror of mine—sharp bones, cold eyes, mouth set in a stubborn line.

"Why did you do it?" I ask, voice soft.

"He pushed Rome," Venice says simply, as if the answer is obvious. "Rome got dirty. Rome cried. So I fixed it."

"By nearly killing him?"

Venice shrugs. A child's shrug. But there's an ancient kind of calculation behind it.

"I didn’t mean to kill him," he says after a beat. "Just...make him stop."

He says it the way someone might say I broke a toy.

Effortless.

Thoughtless.

Dangerous.

I stare at the pond. At our reflection blurred by the ripples. Two monsters. One big. One small.

"You can't always fix things with your hands, Venice," I say. Carefully. "Sometimes fixing things means walking away."

"Will you walk away?" he asks, tilting his head.

I smile faintly. "No."

He nods like he expected that. Like that makes it okay.

"But you," I say, laying a hand gently on his tiny back, "have a choice."

Venice leans into me. Small. Solid. His head fits perfectly under my chin.

"But what if someone hurts Rome again?" he whispers.

My hand tightens against him.

Because I know that question. I know it too well.

What if someone hurts what’s yours? What if you have to choose between mercy and survival?

"You protect him," I say. "Always. But you protect him smart, not loud. You make it so no one wants to touch him in the first place."

He nods solemnly.

And in that moment, I know I haven’t saved him.

I’ve trained him.

PETE’S POV

TWINS’ 6^TH BIRTHDAY

I told Vegas one thing.

One thing.

"No weapons, no training, no mafia shit at their party."

And to his credit, he tried.

There are balloons everywhere.

Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Spilling down from the balcony like someone let a circus explode. Streamers in gold and navy twist across the lawn. A bouncy castle shaped like a dragon roars every time a child jumps too high. The caterers are terrified. One of the balloon animals has a knife holster. Not a joke. An actual holster.

And of course, the twins are having the time of their lives.

Venice is sitting at the center of it all like a tiny prince, eating cake with a fork and knife. Rome is sticky from head to toe, bouncing between activities like he’s part hummingbird, part menace. Every time he yells “I’m six now!!” something breaks.

But then,

The guests started arriving.

And with them came…Uncles.

Men in designer suits with gold watches and blood on their hands.

The uncles are worse than the children.

Kinn and Porsche brought mini motorcycles.

“Just for indoor practice!” Porsche shouted seeing my horrified face.

Kim brought Rome a life-sized plush T-Rex that roars when hugged.

Karin brought a Nerf gun that Venice disassembled in under two minutes and reassembled with better accuracy.

Phoenix is everywhere.

One second he’s climbing the stage, the next he’s stealing bites of cake with his fingers and dodging the nanny like a professional con artist.

“Phoenix!” I bark.

He grins at me, frosting on his face, and waves like he’s in a parade. “It’s not stealing it’s my birthday too Uncle Pete”

No it’s not but I’m not about to start arguing with the tiny headache.

And then there’s Pakin.

Of course there’s Pakin.

He showed up late, in a linen shirt and mirrored glasses, already sipping whiskey from a coffee mug. Everyone tensed the moment he walked in, but the boys—especially Venice—brightened.

They’ve always liked him too much.

Karin mutters something in my ear about "keeping an eye on him."

I nod once and stay across the yard, watching like a hawk.

For a while, Pakin just mingles.

He ruffles Rome’s hair. Gives Venice a stiff nod. Laughs with Vegas about something I’m too far away to hear.

I was halfway through arranging the party favors when Vegas stepped away for a security check and I caught it—Pakin crouching down beside Venice near the koi pond, a wrapped box in his hand, small and precise.

Venice opened it slowly. No wild excitement. Just interest.

Inside: a velvet pouch.

Inside that: a knife.

Small. Beautiful. Black steel, short blade, polished handle with a snake carved into it.

I froze.

Venice turned it over in his hands once, then slipped it into his jacket pocket like it was normal.

Pakin leaned in, whispering something I couldn’t hear.

Venice nodded.

And smiled.

That’s when I moved.

Fast.

I crossed the yard, grabbed Venice by the arm—gently but firmly—and turned to Pakin.

“You gave my six-year-old a knife?” I asked, my voice low, deadly.

He laughs. "Relax. It’s tradition."

"I don’t give a fuck about tradition."

"Just a little blade," he says casually. "For protection. Kid should have one, being who he is."

"He’s six."

"He’s Vegas’ son," he replies, like that explains everything.

And maybe it does.

But I don't care.

Pakin doesn’t flinch. “It’s ceremonial. For his bloodline.”

“He’s six.” I remind him again

Pakin smirked. “So was Vegas, when he got his first blade.”

My jaw clenched.

“Is that supposed to make this okay?”

“Like I said, Just a tradition, Pete. Nothing more.”

I shove past him and storm straight to Venice.

"Give it to me," I say, kneeling in front of him.

He blinks. “It’s small.”

“Venice.”

He sighs, reaches into his blazer, and pulls out a folded, sleek little knife. The kind that could gut a man if held right.

I hold out my hand.

He hesitates.

"Now."

Then he places the knife in my palm.

“Thank you,” I said softly. “Now go play.”

He nods, and walks away.

I turn back to Pakin. “If you ever do that again—”

He raised a hand. “You have my word. Though you might want to start locking the drawers in your bedroom. He’s been teaching himself how to pick the childproof ones.”

I didn’t answer.

I just walked away, hands shaking.

Because I didn’t know what scared me more:

That Pakin gave my son a knife.

Or that my son already knew how to use it.

I storm back across the yard and throw it on the table in front of Vegas.

He blinks once.

Raises an eyebrow.

"Pakin," I say through my teeth. "Gave. Our. Son. A. Knife."

Vegas stares at the blade.

Then looks up at me.

"Baby, it’s small."

"I will scream."

Rome, behind me, is petting the magician’s rabbit. Venice is standing a few feet away, completely unbothered.

Vegas leans in slightly.

"You’re going to yell at me in front of eighty people?"

I smile sweetly.

"Watch me."

…

Pakin leaves and the party continues in full swing. Phoenix runs up to Venice and Rome, dropping down beside them with the elegance of a cat burglar. Venice is seated on a garden bench, watching the other kids like he’s evaluating battlefield positions. Rome is trying to tie three helium balloons to the dog.

Phoenix flops down beside Venice. “What did Uncle Pakin give you?”

Venice doesn’t answer at first.

Then he whispers, “A blade.”

Phoenix tilts his head. “Like a real one?”

Venice nods.

Rome perks up. “Is it shiny?!”

Venice nods again.

Phoenix’s eyes narrow. “Papa says you’re not supposed to keep those till you're at least ten.”

“Papa isn't dad,” Venice says simply.

Phoenix grins. “Nope. Your dad is scarier.”

Rome frowns. “Papa’s scary too when he’s mad. Yesterday he told a grown-up man to go cry in a corner.”

Venice leans in to Phoenix, voice low. “I’m not allowed to keep it.”

Phoenix blinks. “Did you give it back?”

Venice’s lips twitch. “Mostly.”

“Venice.” Phoenix whispers.

Rome is now dangling upside down off the bench.

I step closer just as Phoenix leans over and says, “If Papa Pete finds out you hid a weapon at your own party, he’s going to ban you from sweets for a year.”

Venice shrugs. “He’s busy right now.”

I raise a brow. “No, he’s not.”

They all freeze.

Phoenix turns, perfectly innocent. “Hi Uncle Pete.”

“Where is it?” I say.

Venice doesn’t blink. “The knife P’Pakin gave me? I gave it to you.”

“And the rest of it?”

A pause.

Then slowly, Venice pulls a second smaller blade from his sock.

Phoenix whistles.

Rome claps. “That’s SO COOL.”

I take it, holding it like it might explode.

“Venice,” I say carefully, “you are six years old. This is not a thing six-year-olds do.”

He looks at me, utterly composed. “But it fits.”

Phoenix mutters, “That’s what I said about my snake bracelet, and I still got in trouble.”

I groan.

Then turn toward the house, raising the knife in the air like I’m calling down thunder.

“Vegas!”

…

Pete’s POV

The house is finally quiet.

Rome’s out cold, one leg flung off the bed, face smeared with dinosaur face paint. Venice took longer—still wide-eyed even after the sugar wore off, asking quiet questions like, “Did you really throw my knife away?” and “How will I protect myself and Rome?”

I tucked them in, kissed their heads, and waited until I was sure they were asleep.

Then I go downstairs.

Vegas’ office door is cracked.

The light is low.

I step in without knocking.

He’s at the window, half in shadow, sleeves rolled up, a glass of scotch in one hand, cigarette burning between two fingers of the other.

He doesn’t turn when he says, “Did Rome finally crash?”

“Like a drunk at a festival.”

He takes a drag. Exhales slow. The room smells like smoke and oak.

I shut the door behind me.

“Venice gave me the second knife.”

That gets him to glance over his shoulder.

I cross the room, slow. “It was in his sock.”

He smirks. “Smart placement.”

I glare. “He’s six, Vegas.”

He doesn’t flinch. “So was I.”

I exhale, walk past him, and take the scotch from his hand. I sip.

It burns.

“You know what scares me?” I say quietly, handing the glass back. “He didn’t lie. Not once. He didn’t even hesitate.”

Vegas leans against the windowsill, eyes heavy-lidded. “Because he didn’t think he did anything wrong.”

“He’s six,” I repeat, voice thinner now. “He shouldn’t be thinking in threats and hiding weapons. He shouldn’t know how to smile while doing it.”

Vegas doesn’t answer right away.

Then, “Pakin overstepped.”

I nod. “He always does.”

“I’ll deal with him.”

I raise a brow. “Define ‘deal.’”

“Define ‘trust,’” Vegas replies.

I walk up to him. Close.

“He looks at Venice like he’s waiting.”

“He is.”

I pause. “What for?”

Vegas finishes his drink in one long swallow.

Then looks at me.

“For when I’m gone.”

Something sharp slices through my chest.

I grab his jaw, hold it still. “Don’t talk like that.”

He meets my eyes. “It’s true.”

“Don’t.”

We’re too close now.

Too full of fear. Love. Rage.

I don’t know who moves first—him or me—but suddenly I’m against the window, his mouth crashing against mine, hands hard on my hips.

The kiss is rough. Desperate. Familiar.

Like he’s trying to prove he’s still here. Still mine. Still human.

I pull his shirt free, fingers sliding up warm skin, and he groans into my mouth.

His hands tangle in my hair, and I break the kiss just long enough to gasp, “Don’t think this makes it okay.”

“It never does,” he murmurs, lips trailing down my throat. “But it makes it easier to breathe.”

I bite his shoulder through his shirt. “I’m still mad at you.”

“Good,” he growls. “You’re always better when you’re mad.”

I yank his belt open.

He lifts me onto the desk like I weigh nothing.

Papers scatter. The room smells like smoke and scotch and us.

He parts my legs without asking. Doesn’t need to. I’ve already opened for him. Always do.

My back hits cool wood, papers crinkling under my spine, and his mouth is on my neck again—tongue dragging rough over skin, teeth grazing just shy of bruising.

“You reek of scotch and smoke,” I hiss, hips arching. “And ego.”

“You reek of self-righteousness and need,” he snarls, and grabs the waistband of my trousers, yanking them off like they offended him.

I kick them away. He watches me. Chest rising. Eyes black.

Then, quiet. “Let me have you.”

There’s something unhinged in his voice. Something begging. Something dangerous.

I don’t say yes. I don’t need to.

I hook my fingers into the collar of his shirt and pull.

Buttons scatter. Threads tear.

His body is all tension and old sin. Scars mapping his torso like constellations only I know how to read. I touch each one on purpose. Punishment and prayer.

He shudders under my hand.

When he kisses me again, it’s teeth. It’s hunger.

“Bastard,” I whisper.

“Whose?” he says against my mouth.

I grip the back of his neck. “Mine.”

Vegas growls, lifts me by the hips, and I wrap my legs around his waist.

He fumbles open his trousers with one hand, other braced beside my head, and I feel him—hot, hard, angry—pressing against me.

“Wait,” I rasp, breath catching.

He pauses. Barely. The leash on him is so tight I can hear it fraying.

“I want to see you,” I whisper. “Like this.”

His eyes search mine—still asking, still not breathing—and I nod.

He spits into his hand, strokes himself once, but it’s his mouth—his mouth—that makes me forget how to breathe.

He bends, spreading me open on the polished desk like he’s laying claim to something sacred. Like this is a ritual. His hands rough against my thighs, holding me wide, and then—

He licks me.

One slow, deliberate drag of his tongue from base to rim that makes my hips jolt off the desk.

“Jesus…Vegas….”

He groans like my voice feeds something deep in him. Like I’m saying prayers in tongues only he understands.

“Still mad at me?” he murmurs against my skin, breath hot, lips brushing sensitive flesh.

I arch into his mouth. “Yes.”

His laugh is wicked and wet and low. He licks again, this time flatter, firmer, and I gasp, fists curling in the scattered papers behind me.

“You taste like rage,” he says, like it’s the finest thing he’s ever had. “And want.”

Then he really starts eating.

It’s not delicate.

It’s not sweet.

It’s hungry. Filthy. Worship and punishment tangled in each swipe of his tongue, in every slick, obscene sound he makes sucking me open.

My thighs shake around his shoulders. My back arches.

“Phi—fuck—” I choke out, legs trembling. “That’s—not—fuck, Vegas—”

He reaches up, grabs my hips, and pulls me flush against his mouth, burying his face in me. I feel the sharp edge of teeth, the teasing pressure of his tongue pushing just—just—

“Want to make you soft,” he growls against my hole. “Want you relaxed and ruined before I split you open.”

“Then hurry up,” I snarl, panting, face flushed, dizzy.

He laughs again. It’s dark. Dangerous. Mine.

When he finally pulls back, his face is slick. Wrecked. His lips swollen, his pupils blown.

And his voice—hoarse and ragged—says, “Spread open for me sweetheart.”

I do.

Hands braced on the desk. Legs spread. My heart slamming in my throat.

I feel him. The head of his cock presses against me, thick and unrelenting.

He pushes in.

It’s stretch and sting, sharp and unrelenting.

I grip his shoulders, nails biting into skin.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t go slow. He buries himself to the hilt and stays there, forehead pressed against mine, jaw clenched.

“I should’ve said no,” I breathe.

“But you didn’t,” he growls.

And then he moves.

The desk creaks.

The window fogs.

The world narrows to him—his hands, his body, the filthy, tender, savage way he fucks me like I’m his last chance at softness.

He thrusts deep, dragging me to the edge of the desk with each grind of his hips.

“Look at me,” he pants.

I do.

I always do.

He’s a storm and a grave and a home all at once.

I arch under him, meeting every stroke, dragging my hands down his back. My thighs tremble where they lock around him, and he swears—filthy Thai slipping from his tongue like prayer.

“You feel like sin,” he grits. “Like you were made to ruin me.”

“You ruined yourself,” I gasp.

“And you loved me anyway.”

I bite down on my forearm to stay quiet—but he doesn’t let me.

“Let them hear,” he growls, thrusting hard enough to shift the desk an inch. “Let the whole fucking house hear who you belong to.”

I cry out, broken open, filled in every sense of the word.

And he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow.

Just takes.

And gives.

Until I’m nothing but breath and heat and his name torn raw from my throat.

He reaches between us and grabs my cock. Strokes it once—tight, fast.

I moan—shameless, open, already close. Too close.

“Let go,” he demands.

“Not yet.”

“I said—let go.”

He fucks me harder.

I bite his neck to stay silent but the second he slams deep and grinds against my prostate just right…I break.

I come with a gasp, clenching around him, wet and aching and undone.

Then he pulls out of me, kisses me roughly and turns me over “I’m not done with you”

Hands braced on the desk. Legs spread. My heart slamming in my throat.

I feel him line up behind me. The head of his cock presses against me, thick and unrelenting.

“You’re mine,” he says. Not a question.

“Always,” I whisper.

He slams inside me and I scream.

He keeps fucking me like a man possessed.

“Vegas—” I choke, voice wrecked. “Slower—”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he leans forward, chest plastered to my back, one hand splayed over mine on the desk, pinning me. The other snakes under me, gripping my throat just tight enough to remind me who I belong to.

“You want slow now?” he growls into my ear. “After mouthing off like that? After calling me a bastard and telling me I reek?”

I gasp, trying to speak, but all that comes out is a moan when he rolls his hips just right, grinding deep.

“Answer me,” he hisses, voice low and dangerous. “Or I’ll fuck the words out of you.”

“I wanted to see you,” I manage to say. “Wanted to see your face when you lost it—”

“Oh, I’m not even close to lost, sweetheart,” he whispers. “But you’re about to be.”

He pulls out halfway, then slams back in, and I curse so loud it echoes. The desk lurches under us, a corner leg whining in protest.

“Fuck, Phi—” I gasp, knuckles white on the edge of the wood.

“Say it again.”

I shake my head, dizzy. “Say what?”

“My name. Say it like you mean it.”

“Vegas—fuck—please—” My voice breaks into a whimper as he grinds against that spot that makes me see stars.

“That’s it.” His voice is almost gentle now, reverent. “That’s the sound I wanted. That’s mine.”

His hand leaves my throat only to wrap around my cock, still leaking, painfully hard. He strokes me in time with his thrusts—rough, perfect, unforgiving.

“You gonna come for me again like this?” he pants, lips against my shoulder. “Bent over my desk, taking my cock and shaking like a good little husband?”

I nod frantically, breath catching. “Can’t—can’t—”

“You will. You’re mine.” he groans, pace stuttering. “Give it to me, Pete. Let me feel it—fuck—let me feel you come for me.”

And I do.

I shatter with his name on my lips and his hand on me, body jerking, spilling over his fingers, my thighs quaking.

Behind me, he curses sharply, pulls me back hard against him and then I feel it. Heat. Flooding inside. His grip locking me in place as he groans deep into my skin.

We stay like that for a long moment—his chest against my back, breath uneven, his hands still clutching me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.

I finally break the silence. “The desk’s probably cracked.”

“Worth it.”

I snort, half-laughing, half-exhausted.

Vegas presses a kiss between my shoulder blades, then another. “Still mad at me?”

“Always.”

His arms tighten around me.

“Good,” he whispers. “You’re prettier when you’re mad.”

“You’re prettier when you shut the fuck up.”

He laughs—quiet, real, and presses one last kiss to my spine before lifting me off the desk with aching care.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s clean up before the boys wake up and start asking why the office smells like sweat and violence.”

I don’t fight him when he carries me toward the bedroom. Not this time.

Because if he’s holding me, it means he’s still here.

Still mine.

Still breathing.

And for now, that’s enough.

Vegas’ POV

It’s almost 3 a.m. again.

Pete’s asleep beside me—finally, peacefully. His body draped half over mine like he’s claiming space even in rest. I brush a hand through his hair, soft and damp from the earlier heat, then ease myself out of bed.

There’s something pulling at me.

I cross the hallway barefoot.

Rome’s room is dark. Quiet. He’s snoring softly, clutching that oversized T. rex like it’s going to protect him from war.

I check the blanket. Kiss his hair. Move on.

Venice’s door is cracked.

Light from the hallway cuts across his bed and there he is, sitting upright.

Awake.

His back is against the wall, knees pulled up. His eyes fix on me the moment I step inside.

Like he was waiting.

I close the door behind me. “You should be asleep.”

He shrugs. “I’m not tired.”

I cross to the edge of the bed and sit down.

He watches me.

Quiet. Still. Like I’m the one who might say the wrong thing.

“I thought you were happy today,” I say.

“I was.”

“But?”

“I keep thinking about the knife.”

I nod.

“You mad at me?” he asks softly.

“No.”

He looks down at his blanket, tracing the pattern with one finger. “Papa was.”

“He was scared.”

“Of me?”

I pause.

“No. Of what you might do, if we’re not careful.”

Venice doesn’t speak.

I reach out, brushing a hand through his hair, and for a moment, he leans into it.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he says finally. “But I don’t want anyone to hurt Rome or Phoenix, either.”

“I know,” I whisper. “You don’t have to choose.”

He looks up. “But you do.”

That lands hard.

He’s six.

He shouldn’t understand that.

I cup his face, gentle but firm. “You’re not me, Ven.”

He nods. But it’s slow. Unconvinced.

“I just want to know what I’m allowed to be,” he whispers.

I kiss his forehead.

Then pull the blanket up over him.

“Right now? A boy who sleeps,” I murmur.

“And later?”

I stand.

“A boy Papa can still be proud of.”

He doesn’t ask if that means I won’t be.

He already knows.

I leave the door cracked behind me.

Just in case he has more questions tomorrow.

***

VEGAS’ POV

My office door slams open.

No knock. No warning. Just force.

Pete storms in like a bullet made of fury and fear, Rome stumbles behind him, blinking fast. Venice walks calmly. Hands in his pockets. Like he’s not the reason Pete looks like he could scream the ceiling down.

Pete doesn’t speak at first. He stands in the center of my office, chest heaving, holding out a crumpled letter like it’s Exhibit A in a murder trial.

I raise an eyebrow. “Is there a reason you’re—”

He throws a folded sheet of paper across my desk.

I don’t pick it up.

“Read it,” Pete snaps.

I open it.

It’s a disciplinary note. School letterhead. I recognize the teacher’s name — Mr. Thanat, poor bastard. But it’s not the format that chills me.

It’s the words.

"There has been two instance of Concerns regarding Venice Theeranpanyakun. He intentionally cornered another student in the art room and threatened to cut off their fingers if they ever touched Rome's lunch again. He was holding scissors. He was calm. He said it quietly, and smiled.

Today during recess, he lured another student behind the garden shed and told them he had buried a dead bird under the stones. When the student leaned down to look, Venice held them there by the neck and whispered: ‘If you make Rome cry again, I’ll bury you too. Right next to it.’"

I look up.

Pete is shaking.

His voice cracks. “He smiled, Vegas. He smiled while holding scissors and threatening a six-year-old.”

I say nothing.

Because what the fuck can I say?

Pete shoves his hands through his hair, pacing now, voice rising. “The teacher said it was calculated. That he waited for everyone to leave. He lured the boy in. He locked the door.”

“He threatened another boy,” he spits. “He used a dead animal to do it.”

“It wasn’t a real body,” Venice says, unbothered.

Pete whirls on him. “That is not the point!”

Rome flinches. He’s holding his T. rex too tightly. His lip is trembling, and his eyes dart between us like he’s not sure if this is his fault.

It isn’t.

Venice looks at him once. Brief. Then shrugs.

Pete stops in front of the desk, eyes burning.

“Tell me that doesn’t sound like you.”

It hits me in the chest.

Hard.

“Was Rome hurt?” I ask, voice like glass.

“No. That’s not the point.”

“Was the other kid?”

“Emotionally? Yes! Physically? No! Venice didn’t even touch him. He just—he just threatened him. Like it was a game. Like it was nothing.”

Pete grips the back of the chair. His knuckles are white.

“You want to tell me where he learned that kind of calm, coordinated intimidation at six?”

“Have a seat, boys,” I say quietly.

Rome scurries to the couch. Venice walks. No fear. No shame.

“I didn’t raise him to be like this, Vegas. I didn’t raise him to use fear like a weapon.”

“He was protecting his brother.”

“He was calculating retribution.”

We fall silent.

There’s no screaming now. Just breathing. Raw, quiet, furious breathing.

I look over at Venice.

He’s staring at the floor now.

Not fidgeting.

Not blinking.

Just… still.

It’s the stillness that scares me.

“Did the boys hurt Rome?” I ask Venice directly.

Venice nods. “Yes, they’ve been mean to him all week.”

Rome mumbles, “I didn’t cry though.”

“You did later,” Venice says simply.

Rome goes quiet.

Pete’s voice is hoarse now. “He didn’t just defend him. He wanted to be remembered. He wanted that boy to fear him forever.”

I look back at the letter.

Then at my son.

Six years old. With hands too small for what he’s already holding inside.

“You scared your teacher,” I say, calm and steady. “You scared the boys. And you scared your Papa.”

Venice blinks. “But I didn’t hurt him.”

“No,” I agree. “But you meant to.”

That lands.

He looks up at me, eyes narrowing. Not angry. Not crying. Calculating.

Pete grabs my wrist.

“He’s becoming you.”

“No,” I say, barely above a whisper. “He’s watching me”

Rome climbs into Pete’s arms, finally overwhelmed.

But Venice just sits there.

Silent.

Waiting.

I nod once. “You and I are going to have a talk tonight. Alone.”

Venice doesn’t nod.

He just looks back at me and says, quiet as a blade:

“Okay.”

…

It’s late.

The house is quiet again — the kind of quiet only money, concrete, and exhaustion can buy.

Pete hasn’t spoken much since the office. He tucked Rome in, kissed Venice’s head without saying a word, and closed our bedroom door with a soft click.

I wait.

Then, finally, I call him.

“Venice.”

He steps out of his room in pajamas, calm as ever.

No fear. Not even curiosity.

Just… readiness.

Like he knew this was coming.

We sit in my office.

Lights low. No desk between us this time. Just two chairs, face to face, and a quiet I don’t break for a long time.

Then, softly: “You did a dangerous thing today.”

Venice watches me.

“I don’t mean the threat,” I continue. “I mean the mistake.”

He frowns slightly. “What mistake?”

I lean forward.

“You got caught.”

That makes his eyes flicker.

“You scared a child. You scared a teacher. You scared your Papa.”

“I didn’t mean to scare Papa.”

“I know. That’s the worst part.”

Venice shifts in his seat. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I just wanted him to stop hurting Rome.”

‘I was just protecting family," he says. “Like you always say.”

And there it is.

That sentence.

That truth.

So small in his voice.
So final in mine.

My chest tightens.

He’s so young. Still missing teeth. Still watches cartoons in the mornings when Pete brings out pancakes.

But when it came down to it—he didn’t scream, or cry, or run.

He calculated.

He moved.

He destroyed.

Just like me.

I lean forward, elbows on the desk, and rest my chin on my folded hands.

"You’re not in trouble with me," I say.  “That instinct, protecting Rome, protecting family—that part? That’s good. That’s right.”

He relaxes just a little.

"But you scared Papa."

Venice blinks. "I didn’t mean to."

"I know."

He fidgets a little. "I didn’t want Rome to cry."

I close my eyes for a second.

Because that’s what kills me.

That he did it out of love.

Not rage.

Not ego.

Just love.

I exhale slowly. Stand. Walk around the desk.

He tilts his head back to look up at me, small and straight-spined and too sharp for six.

I crouch beside the chair.

“But,” I say slowly, “next time... if there ever is a next time... there are other ways to hurt someone. To make them afraid.”

His eyes narrow, attentive now.

“You don’t need to touch anyone,” I murmur. “You don’t need to scream or hit or grab. They don’t even have to see you”

I tap the side of my head. “The scariest things live up here.”

Venice is quiet. Still.

I continue, voice low but certain.

“There are ways to put fear into someone that don’t leave bruises. No marks. No mess. Nothing Papa can find.”

He swallows.

“And that matters,” I say. “Because Papa’s sensitive. He sees things in ways you and I don’t. He feels them deeper. So, if you scare him, even on accident... he won’t recover fast.”

Venice’s gaze drops.

“He loves you more than anything,” I say. “And he’s trying so hard to keep you soft. To protect the parts of you that could stay... his, instead of mine.”

Silence stretches between us.

Then Venice whispers, “I don’t want to make Papa cry.”

I nod. “Then don’t get caught. Don’t leave a trace.”

He looks up.

“Does that mean I can’t protect Rome anymore?”

“No,” I say. “It means you must—but you have to be smarter than I ever was.”

He blinks.

And then, for the first time tonight, he smiles.

Not cruel. Not calm.

Just proud.

And something in my chest aches with love and fear.

I lean back. “One day,” I murmur, “you’ll be the most dangerous man in any room, Venice.”

He tilts his head.

“But only if you learn how to be.”

He nods.

I hesitate, then pull him into a hug. Tight.

He melts into me, finally small again.

"You’re a good boy," I whisper. "But don’t carry more than you have to. Let me carry the worst of it, Ven. That’s what I’m for."

His fingers curl into my shirt.

"Okay, Dad."

And I swear to god—I’d raze every school in this city just to make sure this boy gets to keep one piece of his heart safe.

We walk hand in hand back to his room.

He climbs into bed without a word, pulling the blanket up to his chest. The moonlight casts a soft glow over his face—half of Pete, half of me, and already so much more than either.

I tuck the blanket in around him, smoothing the sheets the way Pete does. I reach for his nightlight. I think we’re done.

But then…

"Can you lay with me a bit, Dad?"

His voice is quiet.

Uncertain.

Gentle.

It stops me in place.

Because Venice doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need. He observes, learns, files everything away. He doesn’t cling or cry or say he’s scared.

He’s six. But he acts like he’s responsible for all of us.

I turn back, heart thudding.

"Yeah," I say. My voice comes out rough. "Of course I can."

I slide under the covers next to him, careful, unsure how close to get—until he scoots over and presses into my side, his head against my chest.

Just like that.

Like it’s always been allowed.

Like it’s always been easy.

I wrap an arm around him. Hold him steady. Hold him safe.

I know he’s processing our earlier conversation, and he still has questions.

I hold him a little tighter. Then murmur against his hair—

“There are other ways to hurt somebody, Vee.”

He looks up. Quiet. Curious.

“You don’t always need fists,” I say. “You don’t need blood. You don’t need to touch them.”

He blinks, absorbing.

“You look at someone the right way… make them feel like they’re nothing. You use your words like a blade, your silence like a cage. You don’t leave a mark. You leave a scar.”

His mouth parts slightly.

“You don’t get caught,” I add, tone dropping. “That’s the most important thing.”

He nods slowly.

“Not just because of you,” I say. “But because of Papa.”

Venice tilts his head.

I brush his hair back, gentler now.

“Papa’s… sensitive,” I say quietly. “He sees everything you do. And he feels it. More than he ever says. You get caught, you get punished, he doesn’t just get mad—he hurts.”

Venice frowns. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“I know,” I murmur. “But you did.”

He presses his lips together.

“Next time, you make your point,” I say. “You protect your brother. You scare them if you have to. But you think. You don’t draw attention. You don’t lose control. You don’t let them see the blade until it’s too late.”

He nods.

Not like a child agreeing to anything an adult says.

But like someone taking notes.

I sigh.

Pull him back into my arms.

“Good boy,” I whisper again. “I will always protect you, I will always be there for you, even when you get scared, or hurt, or confused. If nobody else understands you, no matter what you do Ven, I will be here.”

His fingers curl into my shirt again, and I press my lips to his hair.

"I’ve got you," I murmur. "Always."

He doesn’t answer.

But he doesn't let go either.