As you drifted off to sleep, he quietly slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb you. He put on his black turtleneck and jacket, his movements precise and silent. Glancing at you one last time, he left the house, his footsteps barely audible.

Outside, he walked to his car and drove off into the night, heading toward his base.

When he arrived, his henchmen immediately bowed. “Boss, we’ve dealt with the man who tried to harm your wife,” one of them reported.

His expression remained cold as he walked to the center of the dimly lit room. His sharp gaze fixed on the trembling man before him.

“You had the audacity to touch my wife?” he said, his voice low and menacing as he pointed a gun at the man’s head.

The man stammered, trying to plead, but he wasn’t given a chance.

“Finish him,” he ordered, tossing the gun to one of his henchmen. “I don’t have time for this.”

He turned and walked away, his mind already on returning home. He needed to ensure everything was settled before you woke up and noticed he was gone.

The next morning, you woke up and reached out, realizing the bed was empty. Frowning, you got up and headed to the bathroom, washing your face and brushing your teeth before heading to the kitchen.

There he was, standing by the counter, focused on mixing something in a bowl.

A smile spread across your face as you walked up to him, wrapping your arms around him from behind. “What’s my beloved chef cooking for breakfast?” you asked, your voice warm.

He turned, his eyes softening as he smiled down at you. Hugging you tightly, he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Pancakes with a special topping,” he replied, making you smile even more.

Did I forget to mention? In the morning, he’s the best chef ever. At night? He’s the feared underground mafia boss.