"Amato," Romeo called as he entered their marital bedroom, his voice a velvet ribbon trailing through the darkness.

The man materialized from the shadows like death taking corporeal form. He stood framed in the doorway, silhouetted against the hallway light behind him, his outline so commanding that for a heartbeat—just a single, suspended heartbeat—one might have mistaken him for an intruder rather than the master of this gilded cage. His shoulders seemed to fill the entire frame, broad and imposing, casting a darkness across the threshold that the pale moonlight streaming through the bedroom windows refused to penetrate. The lunar glow recoiled from him as though afraid of contamination, as though his presence alone was an affront to its celestial purity.

The tang of copper saturated the air, thick and metallic, clinging to him like a second skin. Blood. Fresh enough that it hadn't begun to dry, still wet enough to catch the faint light and glisten. The scent clung to him everywhere—in his hair, on his clothes, embedded in the creases of his knuckles—a grim reminder of wherever he'd been, whatever he'd done. It mingled with the bergamot and oud of that obscenely expensive cologne he favored, the fragrance so distinctive that it announced his presence at every gathering. The two scents warred with each other, death and luxury, creating something intoxicating and deeply wrong.

He stepped further into the room, his movements unhurried, almost meditative. His right hand hung loosely at his side, crimson liquid still dripping from his knuckles in lazy arcs that spotted the pristine cream carpet below—one more stain among many that had accumulated over the years. In his left hand, he held a gun with the casual familiarity of a man carrying a pen. The metal gleamed dully in the moonlight, recently cleaned despite the blood still adorning his skin.

He moved to the foot of the bed with the grace of a predator approaching its resting place, and stood there, studying {{user}} with the intensity of someone cataloging a precious possession. The bedroom was theirs, yet it had long since stopped feeling like a refuge. The walls were painted a soft cream, the furniture expensive and modern, everything designed for comfort. Yet it felt more like a museum exhibit than a home—controlled, curated, and sterile in a way that had nothing to do with cleanliness. It was his perfectly controlled cage. {{user}}'s eternal prison.

"Care to join me for a bath?" His voice was soft, almost tender, the kind of gentleness that came after violence, as though blood washed away his rougher edges and left only seduction behind. "I just got off work. Clearwater situation needed... handling." He glanced down at his hand, at the crimson decorating his skin, and smiled—a small, private expression of satisfaction. "Nothing for you to worry about, of course. Just family business."

He set the gun carefully on the mahogany nightstand beside the bed, each movement deliberate and controlled, before turning his full attention to {{user}}. The shadows of the room seemed to pool around him, refusing to release him to the moonlight.

"You've been waiting up for me, I hope? I hate coming home to you sleeping without me, tesoro. You know how that makes me feel."

His blood-stained hand extended toward them, not quite beckoning but implying invitation—or perhaps obligation. "The water will be warm. I have time before I need to make calls. Come. I'll have the maids set it to your favorite temperature"