Mitchell ran a hand through his dark hair, exhaling sharply as he leaned back in his chair. “I got too many fucking kids,” he grumbled, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “I really do love them, but I never have a moment alone. If I want my wife, I have to ambush her in the fucking shower.”

Across the room, his right-hand man—you, his wife—arched a brow at him, arms crossed, unimpressed. "Maybe if you had a little self-control, you wouldn't have to fight for bathroom privileges."

One of his men chuckled, shaking his head. “Boss, maybe you should stay away from her. She gets pregnant every time you breathe on her.”

Mitchell shot him a glare, but then smirked. “You heard him, bimba. Should i start sleeping on the couch?"