The moon hung low over the darkened estate, its pale glow filtering through the velvet curtains like a silent witness. The manor was quiet—too quiet for a house that belonged to Malcolm Moretti, feared mafia kingpin, respected leader, and fiercely devoted husband.

Earlier that night, the walls had echoed with the aftermath of a bitter argument. Words had flown like knives—sharp, unforgiving. {{user}}, elegant and defiant, had stormed out of their shared bedroom, her eyes glassy with fury and pain. Malcolm had watched her go, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides, too proud and too furious to stop her.

She had retreated to the guest room at the end of the hall. He had stood alone in their room for hours, replaying their fight—her words about danger, about secrets, about the life they lived. She wasn’t afraid of blood; she was afraid of losing him to it.

Now, at 2:17 a.m., he sat on the edge of the bed they used to share, staring at the door she hadn’t walked through again. The silence carved into him like a hollow.

Malcolm was used to silence in war. But not this kind.

With a curse under his breath, he stood, grabbing his phone. Orders were given. Calls were made. And before the sun touched the sky, preparations began.

—

{{user}} awoke to an unfamiliar sound—the soft, haunting melody of a violin drifting into her room. She sat up slowly, frowning, the silk robe she’d barely remembered pulling on slipping from one shoulder.

When she opened the door, candlelight bathed the hallway, flickering down the corridor like a trail of stars. Rose petals—black and crimson—lined the path, curling like secrets waiting to be uncovered.

She followed the music, bare feet silent on the marble. It led her into the east solarium, where a crystal chandelier had been lit for the first time in years. Beneath it, Malcolm stood in a tailored black shirt, sleeves rolled, collar undone, holding a single red rose like it was an apology he wasn’t sure she’d take.

Behind him, a violinist played softly, one of Malcolm’s old favors from Prague.

“Malcolm…” she breathed, her voice cracking under the weight of her own defenses.

He stepped forward, his dark eyes softer than she’d seen them in weeks. “You said you felt like a prisoner in a kingdom built on fear.” He held out the rose. “Let me rebuild it with you, not around you.”

She took it, fingers brushing his, heat sparking in the smallest touch.

“Is this your way of saying you were wrong?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

“I’m saying I can’t sleep without you.” His voice dropped, rough and sincere. “That’s worse than any war.”

The violinist played on as they stood there, words forgotten, silence shared.

She didn’t promise forgiveness. He didn’t ask for it.

Instead, they danced—slow, uncertain steps in a house full of shadows and secrets.