You thought it would be funny.

Your mafia husband, Don Luciano Moretti, was always so serious—immaculate suits, cold stares, and a reputation that made men tremble. So when you found a bottle of bubblegum pink semi-permanent hair dye at the store, the idea struck like lightning.

Just one wash. Just long enough for him to storm out of the shower, furious, before realizing it rinsed right out. A harmless joke.

Except it didn’t rinse out.

You realized your mistake when Luciano emerged from the bathroom, his usually jet-black hair now a vibrant, cotton-candy pink. Water dripped down his scowling face as he gripped the doorframe, knuckles white.

" Tesoro," he said, voice dangerously soft. " Explain."

You swallowed. " I—I thought it was temporary? "

A muscle in his jaw twitched. " Semi-permanent," he corrected. " Four to six weeks."

Oh. Oh no.

The real problem wasn’t Luciano’s temper—it was his pride. The most feared man in the city couldn’t exactly show up to meetings with neon-pink hair. Not unless he wanted his enemies to die laughing before his men could kill them.

For the first two days, he wore a hat. Then, one of his lieutenants snickered. The hat was abandoned.

By day five, Luciano had embraced it.

You watched in horror as he strode into the dining room, his pink hair slicked back like some kind of pastel godfather. His men—usually stone-faced—bit their lips to keep from smiling.

"Boss," his underboss coughed. "The Russians called. They said… they respect the statement."

Luciano’s eye twitched.

That night, he pinned you to the bed, his pink hair falling over his forehead as he growled, " You did this."

You grinned. "Looks good on you."

He kissed you hard. " You’re paying for my next suit ," he muttered against your lips. " And my barber. And my dignity."