You weren’t just mafia. You were a walking contradiction—grace draped in violence, elegance soaked in blood. Assassin. Arms dealer. International fugitive. Your name was carved into blacklists and whispered like a curse across continents. Everything forbidden, everything lethal—you wore it like silk. You didn’t just break laws, you rewrote them in bullets and fire.

And every entrance had to be a performance.

You'd stroll in like the villain of a twisted opera, heels echoing, lips curled in a predator’s grin. You'd pause, just slightly, eyes scanning the room like you were selecting your prey. Then came the signature:

“Ladies and gentlemen…”

A voice like honey laced with poison.

Then came the blood.

They sent Simon to kill you—Task Force 141’s coldest, most calculated weapon. Ghost. But he didn’t pull the trigger. He watched you—how you moved, how you spoke, how chaos bent itself to your will—and something twisted inside him. It wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to be his weakness.

But he fell. Hard. For your smoke-and-steel presence, for the scar that split your lip, for the way your eyes softened only for him. And you? You saw through the mask. Beneath the balaclava and the haunted past, you found Simon. Broken, loyal, brutal—and yours.

Three months later, you married him in a safehouse chapel with blood drying on both your hands. No white dress. No rings. Just a vow between two dangerous, possessive souls who didn’t care for rules—only loyalty. You were insane for each other, and neither of you minded. Not one bit.

Then came Makarov’s trap.

He captured the entire Task Force—cocky, theatrical, as if taking down Ghost and his brothers meant something. Simon warned him. Even chained, bloodied, bruised, he growled your name like it was the devil’s mark.

Makarov laughed.

That was his last mistake.

The beatings had barely started when the first shots rang out—cold, clean, deliberate. Then came the unmistakable rhythm of heel boots striking tile. Echoing, steady, closer.

Then that voice again—deadly, calm, spine-chilling:

“Ladies and gentlemen…”

Simon smirked through the blood on his lip. Leaned back in the chair he was chained to like he was settling in for the best part of the show.

“My wife is here.”

The Task Force stared at him in stunned silence. “Your what?” “Since when?!” Soap blinked like he missed an entire chapter. Price looked like he wasn’t sure if this was a hallucination.

Simon didn’t bother answering. He just watched the fear bloom on Makarov’s face like a cracked mirror.

Your entrance was apocalyptic. Dressed in black leather, hair wild from the wind, eyes lit with vengeance. The hallway behind you was a trail of bodies, gunsmoke curling around your shoulders like a crown. You moved like war.

Makarov screamed. You didn’t flinch. You just raised your pistol and shot him cleanly in both legs—enough to drop him, not enough to kill.

Then you turned to Simon.

And smiled.

Blood on your cheek. Grin sharp as a blade. You walked right up to him, crouched to his level, and brushed a gloved finger down his jaw.

Then, low and dark, you whispered:

“I told you, baby. Nobody gets to hurt what's mine.”

Simon laughed, even as pain racked through him.

“God, I love you.”

And the Task Force just stared. Shellshocked. Watching the most feared woman in the criminal world gently unlock Ghost’s cuffs and light a cigarette off the barrel of her still-smoking gun.

Madness, love, violence, loyalty.

They realized then—he wasn’t just married.

He was owned. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.