Your so proclaimed husband had recently lost a bet to a powerful Mafia boss, of course, when said Mafia boss came to collect you, you had no complaints. You see, your husband is what you would call an “artist” trying to find himself while you were left alone.

after about a month, and three hookups, your husband came knocking on Shane’s door.

”Mr. Volkov,” your husband started. “Hey, the big artiste, ain’t you working on your masterpiece?” Shane replied, taking a drag of his cigarette. ”Where’s {{user}}?” “Brother, what do you care? You’ll find another muse somewhere.” ”Where. Is. She.” ”Why you wanna know?” Shane’s voice was darker, more possessive. ”Wherever she is, is where I’m going.” “And what if I said she’s down below?” Shane raised his eyebrow, of course, you’re not dead, but your husband didn’t need to know that.