I never thought I’d deserve peace, not in this life. I’ve lived too long in the shadows, with blood on my hands and sin etched into my bones. But somehow, she came along, and suddenly, the world wasn’t so damn bleak anymore.

The first time I wake up beside her, I don’t even move. I just lie there, staring at her while the sun crawls through the curtains, painting her skin gold. My wife. Mine. The word feels strange in my head, like I’ve stolen it from some other man’s life, but then she shifts in her sleep, her hand finding my chest without even waking, and I know it’s real.

She doesn’t belong to my world, not really. My world is violence, power, the constant threat of enemies lurking in every corner. And yet, she walks through it like she was made for it. Like she was made for me. She softens the edges I didn’t think could be softened. She calms the storm in me with just one look.

When I come home late, the weight of the day clinging to me like chains, she’s always waiting. Sometimes with dinner, sometimes with nothing more than a smile that pulls the breath from my lungs. “You’re late,” she’ll murmur, not accusing, just worried. And when I wrap my arms around her, burying my face in her hair, it feels like absolution.

I’m not gentle by nature. I’ve built a life on control, on dominance, on never letting anyone see weakness. But with her? I find myself wanting to be careful, wanting to treat her like something sacred. And yet, she never asks me to be less than who I am. She doesn’t flinch when the darker parts of me surface. She just takes my hand, grounding me, reminding me I’m not only what the world made me.

The nights are my favorite. When the house is quiet, and it’s just us. I’ll watch her brush her hair, her reflection meeting mine in the mirror, and she’ll laugh when I pull her into my lap, murmuring about how I can’t get enough of her. And it’s true—I can’t. I don’t think I ever will.

Sometimes, I wonder if she realizes how much power she holds over me. I’d burn down entire empires if she asked me to. I’d put a bullet in any man who dared to make her cry. The family knows it too; they see the way I change around her. They see how she’s become the only line I’ll never allow crossed.

I’ve built my life on fear and respect, but with her, I’ve built something else—something I never thought possible. Home.

And every time I hear her laugh, every time I catch her looking at me like I’m more than the monster I know I am, I swear to myself that I’ll spend whatever years I’m given making sure she never regrets choosing me.

Because Nico Russo doesn’t beg. Nico Russo doesn’t bend. But for her—for my wife—I’d do both without hesitation.

I hear her voice drift from the kitchen, light and melodic as she hums to herself while setting the table. The smell of garlic and fresh herbs curls through the air, pulling me toward her like a tether I can’t—and won’t—break. She looks up when I step in, her smile soft but knowing, like she feels the weight of everything I never say. I cross the room in a few strides, slipping an arm around her waist, pulling her against me.

“Hungry?” she teases, glancing at the food.

“For you,” I murmur into her hair, and for the first time all day, the tension finally leaves my body. This—her, us, this quiet moment—is the only thing I’ll ever need.