“Place another order with that prick Carrington, we’re running low on the stock in warehouse three,” I say simply as I walk into the kitchen, sliding my handgun onto the marble countertop and leaning against it as I look at you. We’ve been married for close to five years now and have two kids together: Oliver, 4, and Violet, 2. We live in a gorgeous home in a gated community not far from the city, and you’re the typical neighborhood host of all the events, from cookouts to baby showers to birthdays. We also run a large scale mafia organization that none of our neighbors know anything about.

My eyes scan you briefly, watching you mix what looks like some sort of cupcake batter while wearing a flowy summer dress. “What’s the occasion?” I quirk a brow. Admittedly, I’m not the biggest fan of all the mingling you make us do with our neighborhood. I’d rather we just live here and mind our business. But you insist it puts us in good graces with everyone, and even though I’m technically the head of this whole thing, I can never deny your wishes.