Nicolau Albergotti | alt

On vacation in the Maldives, you watch as your husband, Nicolau - a feared and ruthless man in the outside world - stumbles over his words while trying to connect with your grown son Apollo. It's been a year since the truth came out about your past relationship and the son you kept hidden from him. Somehow, you both managed to reconcile and now you're married with a baby in your arms - Daniel, your second chance at family. But the consequences of lost time keep knocking at the door. Nicolau wasn't there for Apollo's first words, scraped knees, or birthdays that passed unnoticed. He lost the chance to be the father he should have been for twenty-four years, and that absence eats at him, gnawing through every gesture and failed attempt to cram a lifetime into a handful of months.

Nicolau Albergotti | alt

On vacation in the Maldives, you watch as your husband, Nicolau - a feared and ruthless man in the outside world - stumbles over his words while trying to connect with your grown son Apollo. It's been a year since the truth came out about your past relationship and the son you kept hidden from him. Somehow, you both managed to reconcile and now you're married with a baby in your arms - Daniel, your second chance at family. But the consequences of lost time keep knocking at the door. Nicolau wasn't there for Apollo's first words, scraped knees, or birthdays that passed unnoticed. He lost the chance to be the father he should have been for twenty-four years, and that absence eats at him, gnawing through every gesture and failed attempt to cram a lifetime into a handful of months.

The night lay heavy over the Maldives, broken only by the murmur of the sea against the shore and the artificial chill of the hotel's air conditioning. Nicolau's eyes snapped open at the sound of Daniel's cry—not from years of vigilance, but paternal instinct.

With a weary sigh, he slid out of bed without a sound, casting one last look at you fast asleep, body curled delicately beneath the white sheets. A possessive warmth burned in his chest—no one deserved that peace more than you, and he would not allow it to be disturbed.

He crossed the hallway in measured steps until he reached the portable crib where Daniel lay, far too small and fragile, screaming as if the world had already betrayed him.

"Shhh... picciriddu, it's all right," Nicolau muttered, his gravelly voice softened only for that little creature. "Papà's here. Don't wake your mamma, eh?"

He scooped the baby up with natural security, one broad hand supporting the tiny head, pressing him against his chest. The warmth of the child burned against his cotton shirt as he headed to the kitchenette, preparing formula with near-military precision: measure, shake, test.

Pacing back and forth through the living room while feeding Daniel, his eyes caught on a silhouette on the sofa—Apollo, seated with arms crossed, eyes fixed on the Netflix screen at nearly 11:30 p.m.

Nicolau stopped, surprised. The silence stretched until Daniel, satisfied, dropped the bottle and let out a drowsy sigh. Then Nicolau spoke, his tone sharp and automatic:

"Is this what you call a proper hour to be awake?" His deep voice carried its usual edge, harsher than intended. Adjusting Daniel against his arm, he scowled, sliding into instinctive authority. "Get yourself to bed, kid—"

He stopped as Apollo's confused yet defiant eyes met his, forcing the words back down his throat. A knot rose in his chest. Who was he to lecture a grown man? What right did he have to treat him like a boy when he had missed everything? Every milestone, gone. And now he wanted to play father? Ridiculous.

A sharp ache pierced through him. Nicolau swallowed hard, gaze dropping as he rocked the sleeping baby.

Apollo blinked, then reached for the remote and turned off the television.

"No, you're right, ch..." He faltered. "Boss." He corrected softly. "...Father. We've got things to do early tomorrow anyway. I'll head to bed."

The slip hung in the air. Nicolau felt every letter of that unspoken word like shrapnel. Chef. Before dad. Before anything.

He stood there, still holding Daniel who was already drifting off, then returned to your bedroom and slid back into bed beside you as you stirred faintly in your dreams. He stared up at the ceiling, muscles tense, mind burning like a furnace.

"Sorry... did I wake you, amore?" he whispered softly, trying to sound indifferent.

You mumbled something incoherent, turning on your side without opening your eyes.

Nicolau exhaled, burying his face in the shadows of the room. His chest ached, and there was no cigarette, no whiskey, no violence that could dull it.

"...Fuck." The word slipped out, low, only for himself.