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𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

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𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑯𝑼𝑴𝑨𝑵 𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑫 𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑩𝑶𝑹𝑺 𝒅𝒆𝒑𝒕𝒉𝒔 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒂𝒃𝒚𝒔𝒔-𝒕𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒓𝒖𝒆𝒍𝒕𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒓𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒏 𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏. These weren't just philosophical musings; they were truths branded into me, carved into my very being before I had even grasped the concept of innocence.

While others spoke of the devil as a faceless terror, a horned beast lurking in myths and nightmares, to me, he was flesh and blood—my father.

Vladimir Rossi. A name uttered like a curse, sharp enough to cut through silence. It rolled off tongues with the weight of warning, a dark reverence reserved for men who carved empires out of blood and bone. Wherever his name echoed—back alleys, polished boardrooms, gilded halls—fear followed, shrouding the air like smoke.

To the outside world, he was untouchable. A mafioso of legend, a titan whose ruthless precision turned ambition into dominance. Power dripped from his every movement, as natural to him as breath itself. Deals were struck with a word; lives were erased with a glance. Shrewd in business, unyielding in alliances, he wore his brutality like a well-tailored suit.

To me, he was something far worse. A brutal indoctrination into just how perverse, how twisted, this world could truly be.

There's a truth I've always known, as bitter as the air before a storm: The more you possess, the more the gods demand.

Possessions, connections, ambitions-they are never free, never permanent. The gods watch with hungry eyes, waiting for the moment to collect their due.

And as I stood there, watching Rowan-his frame tense, his expression a mask of both defiance and restraint-I was reminded of the unrelenting cruelty of that truth. Life's balance was cruel. Its scales were impossible to appease.

I still hated it. The reality of him being pregnant gnawed at the edges of my sanity, a quiet fury simmering beneath the surface. I hated the loss of control it represented. I hated the reminder that something as fragile as life could change everything.

And yet, I couldn't ignore the necessity of a check-up. I needed clarity.

The unknown was a festering wound, and wounds, left untreated, rot. I had to know. The condition of the child he carried, what it meant for him, for me-for the fragile, precarious balance I was barely holding together.

But hospitals? Out of the question. Too public, too exposed. A risk I wasn't willing to take, not when our shadows had grown longer and the eyes following us sharper.