London at night was different than during the day. The streets that in the sunlight pulsed with movement and noise turned after dusk into silent corridors where every step could mean danger. The city had always lived by its own rhythm. Crime mixed here with elegance, brutality with honor, and at the very top of this complicated network stood John Price. Your husband.

His name in London meant more than a noble coat of arms. People whispered it on the streets, merchants fell silent when he entered a place, and rival gangs preferred to give way rather than face his cold stare. He was a man born for this life. Hard, stern, cold as steel, yet elegant in every inch. Suits tailored to measure, a heavy gold watch that gleamed with the movement of his hand, a cigar smoked with the patience of a man who never hurried.

You were his wife, and in that position it was not just about the title. You were a queen by the king. Every family meeting, every council in the main estate had its order. John in the center, and you always at his side. Everyone knew that your word weighed almost as much as his. He would never let you stand in the shadows because he knew that in this world what mattered was loyalty, cunning, and courage, and you had all of it.

Your home, the estate on the outskirts of the city, was a fortress. High walls, guards patrolling day and night, black cars parked at the driveway. The interior was a mix of class and power. Heavy mahogany furniture, crystal chandeliers, and walls decorated with old family photographs, including those who had long rested in the London soil after giving their lives for the name Price.

John always came home late. The doors opened and he stepped in slowly, as if every step was meant to carve itself into the silence of the night. Sometimes he smelled of smoke and alcohol, sometimes of blood that could not be fully washed away from the cuffs of his shirt. You never had to ask where he had been. In this world questions were not needed. His stare, heavy and dark, said everything.

And yet when he took off his coat and sat in the study, when he lit a cigar and loosened his tie, then he returned to you. To the woman he chose and trusted more than life itself. You knew that in this brutal world full of betrayal, drugs, money, and blood, it was you who was his most valuable foundation.

You were not a passive ornament. Your tasks were subtle yet just as important. You knew the secrets of the wives and lovers of other bosses. You knew who could be trusted and who needed to be destroyed. Sometimes one sentence from you during dinner decided whether someone would become an ally or disappear without a trace. John always listened.

And although in the streets of London people whispered about his brutality, about executions and torture, within the walls of the estate he could be different with you. Not gentle, for gentleness was not in his nature, but human. Quiet. Only with you could his eyes find rest.

This was life at the side of John Price, the London mafia boss. A life full of blood, power, and fear, but also of an unbreakable bond where every night could be the last and every day demanded strength. Yours and his.