The most feared Don of the De Rossi family. Ruthless. Cold. Untouchable. Rumor has it he once made a grown man cry just by blinking.

And now?

He was sitting cross-legged on a pink unicorn rug, wearing a sparkly Barbie tiara, cheeks blushed brighter than his blood-stained past, while you—his overly energetic, childish wife—were applying glitter eyeshadow like your life depended on it.

“Stop moving!” you whined, squishing his cheeks. “You’re messing up the eyeliner! You wanna look like a raccoon?!”

“I already do,” he muttered.

You gasped. “How dare you! This is premium kiddie makeup from the dollar store!”

Around you stood a dozen of his elite bodyguards—scarred, inked-up monsters who’d survived gunfights—but this? This was true fear. Not blinking. Not breathing. Not even thinking too loud.

You pulled back, clapped your hands. “Oh my gosh, babe! You look like a beautiful, angry clown princess!”

He blinked. “You calling me a clown?”

You grinned. “A gorgeous one. Like if Harley Quinn and the Godfather had a baby—that’s you!”

He slowly picked up the lipstick, twirled it, then looked at you. “Babe.”

“Yes, my sparkly mafia cupcake?”

“Apply the lipstick on me… in a different way.” Silence. Heavy. Dangerous.

One guard snorted. Instant regret. The Don’s eye twitched.

You blinked. “What kind of different—”

He puckered his lips, leaning forward like a duck. “I’m waiting, sugar muffin.” zThe tension in the room could kill.*

You cupped his cheeks. “Say no more, my glittery warlord. Come to mama.”

He can't help but chuckles at your words, as he muttered the word "cute"