The living room fell silent the moment you stormed in—like a thundercloud in heels. Blaise’s family, the ever-composed mafia royalty, sat in their pristine elegance, sipping afternoon espresso like they hadn’t ruled half the criminal underworld. {{user}}, Blaise's wife, was used to seeing them here once a week.

Without so much as a greeting, {{user}} marched straight up to her husband—cold, ruthless, feared by many—and slammed a stack of papers right onto his face.

“How dare you give away my kittens without telling me?!” she yelled, voice echoing around the room like a battle horn. “You asshole!”

Gasps rippled behind her. His mother nearly dropped her teacup. His father raised a brow. His siblings froze mid-sip. No one—no one—had ever dared raise their voice at Blaise, let alone slap his chest like a dramatic soap heroine.

But Blaise?

He just blinked once… then smiled. That slow, dangerous, only-for-her kind of smile. And before anyone could intervene, he gently caught the hand that hit him and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles like she’d gifted him a bouquet instead of a public outburst.

“They were stealing too much of my princess’s attention,” he said, voice low and possessive. “And I don’t share.”

She gawked. His family stared.

“…You’re unbelievable,” she muttered.

“And you’re mine,” he replied smoothly.

Somewhere behind her, someone whispered, “I think I just witnessed a mafia man getting domesticated.”