Daddy Instincts

Present day

It started with a silence that wasn't quite right.

Marco had been sitting outside Luca's door for almost three hours. That wasn't unusual. He did it most nights. No one questioned it anymore.

He sat in the leather armchair across from the suite entrance, one ankle over a knee, hand resting on the pistol holstered beneath his jacket. A glass of scotch, untouched, balanced on the side table beside him. The hallway was quiet, but something inside the room wasn't.

Breathing. Fast. Uneven.

Marco's eyes lifted. He didn't move, but his body went alert—every instinct tuned to him.

Then a soft sound, barely audible.

A gasp? No—a sob.

Marco stood.

He didn't knock. Not this time. He pressed his palm flat against the door and spoke low.

"Luca."

Nothing.

Another shallow inhale, then a choked whimper—like someone trying to cry without being heard. Marco's heart seized. He tried the handle. It was Locked. That alone told him everything. Luca never locked the door when he was alone. It was a ritual, a signal—you can come if I need you.

Tonight, the lock made him feel scared of needing anyone at all.

"Hey," Marco said softly. "I'm right here."

Still nothing.

He rested his forehead against the wood, grounding himself, fighting the part of him that wanted to kick the door down and find his Luca curled up and shaking and make it all stop.

Instead, he took a breath and sat down, back against the wall, legs stretched out across the marble.

"You're okay," he said, voice just loud enough to carry. "You're safe. I'm not going anywhere."

The air on the other side shivered with silence.

Marco could feel him—curled under that soft pink blanket, clutching BunBun with trembling fingers, biting back tears he thought would make him unworthy. He closed his eyes.

"I know you're scared. It's okay to be scared," he said, softer now. "You don't have to be the Don with me."

The words felt like blasphemy, but he meant them. He always had. A beat passed. Then another. Still no answer, but Marco wasn't expecting one.

So he kept talking. Calm, quiet, steady.

"You remember the funeral?" he asked. "You were fifteen. You thought no one knew you were breaking. I saw you. I made sure no one else did."

A breath from behind the door. Sharp. Quiet.

"I saw you holding that bunny, shaking like the world was ending. And all I could think was, I'd give anything to take that weight off you. To make you feel safe again."

His throat tightened.

"I still would."

The door didn't open, but something shifted. The breathing slowed. A tiny hiccup. A sniffle. The beginnings of calm.

Marco let himself lean into the door.

"I don't need you to be strong for me, Luca," he whispered. "I need you to be real with me. However you are. However small."

A pause and then—a miracle. The lock clicked. The door creaked open, just an inch.

Marco's heart slammed against his ribs.

He pushed it open gently.

And there he was.

Luca, sitting on the floor, bunny clutched tight to his chest, eyes glassy and red-rimmed, cheeks wet with silent tears. His pacifier lay beside him on the carpet, untouched but waiting.

He looked up at Marco, expecting to be judged or pitied.

Marco knelt beside him, slow, deliberate, and said the only thing that felt true.

"Baby."

The word broke the tension like glass underfoot.

Luca whimpered, crawled forward on instinct, and collapsed into Marco's arms with a quiet sob.

Marco wrapped him up—blanket, bunny, all of him—and held him tight against his chest.

"You're okay," he murmured into Luca's hair. "Daddy's got you."

And for the first time, Luca didn't flinch at the word. He melted.

The light in the room was soft, filtered through half-closed curtains. Quiet. Still. Luca blinked awake slowly, like surfacing from deep water. Something warm was wrapped around him.

Not a blanket but Arms. Marco's Arms. Luca's heart stuttered.

His head was tucked beneath Marco's chin, his face against the broad wall of his chest. Marco's legs were tangled with his under the blanket, and one hand was still resting against Luca's hip—solid and steady even in sleep.

Luca froze.

Memory rushed in like a flood.

Last night. The panic attack. The shaking. The door.

The bunny. The sobbing. The words. "Daddy's got you."

His stomach flipped. His face burned. God. How much had Marco seen? How much had he said? Luca tried to shift, to untangle himself without waking the man who'd held him through a breakdown he hadn't even meant to have. But Marco stirred, just slightly—his hand curling instinctively to pull Luca closer. Not possessive but Protective. Luca's throat tightened. He hated that it felt so good. He hated that he wanted it again. He stayed still for a minute longer, listening to Marco's heartbeat and trying to think.

Last night was a haze—blurry around the edges. He remembered the pain, the fear, the panic. And then warmth. A voice. Safety. BunBun was held between them, but had he let Marco see him like that? Had he let go, or had it all just been a dream? He looked down. His bunny was still in his arms. So, no, it was not a dream. A sharp pang of embarrassment stabbed through him. The kind that makes your skin hot and your mind race to erase everything that just happened. What the hell did I do?

He was the Don. The heir of an empire. A man people feared.

And Marco…

Marco was his right hand. His second. His shield. He wasn't supposed to see him like this. He wasn't supposed to know that under the black silk suits and polished shoes and bloodied threats, Luca Valeri sometimes needed to be held like a scared kid, but he had seen it. He didn't flinch. He didn't run. He stayed.

He'd said, "Daddy's got you."

Luca's breath hitched, and he liked it. No—loved it. That thought was more dangerous than anything else. Marco shifted again, finally waking. His voice came low and rough, full of sleep and something more profound.

"You're safe."

Luca closed his eyes, trying not to react, but his body did—he melted slightly into the warmth of Marco's chest before catching himself. He rolled away and sat up.

"Sorry," Luca said, voice scratchy. "I didn't mean… I just—last night was—"

He couldn't finish the sentence. Marco didn't push. He just sat up behind him, quietly. "You don't have to explain anything to me."

Luca's jaw clenched, but he wanted to.

He wanted to ask:

Did you see the bunny?

Did you hear me cry?

Did you mean it when you called yourself Daddy?

Do you think I'm weak now? Broken?

Instead, what came out was—

"Did I… say anything?"

Marco paused.

A beat too long.

Then: "You called me Daddy once."

Luca's whole chest went tight. His ears burned. "Shit."

"Don't apologize," Marco said, gently. "I liked it."

Luca looked at him. Looked.

And what he saw wasn't pity. Or amusement. Or awkwardness.

It was calm.

Warmth.

Something patient and steady and maybe—just maybe—hope.

Marco stood, looked at Luca. "I'm making breakfast. Do you want to come down to the kitchen? No one will be here today since it's Saturday. You can stay in your soft clothes."

Luca blinked. "Your….Staying." They walked down to the kitchen.

Marco looked over his shoulder and gave a half-smile, crooked and dangerous in a way that made Luca's stomach twist.

"I'm not going anywhere, baby."