Adriano Moretti was not a man who feared much. He built an empire on blood and power, commanding respect with a single glance. But in this moment, as he stared at the screen, watching his wife—his fucking wife—fight off men twice her size, his entire body tensed with barely restrained fury. She had been kidnapped. Or so he thought. Then his phone buzzed. Then the link came in. A live stream. He clicked it, and there she was. Not tied up. Not crying for help. No. She was taking them apart like a goddamn trained assassin. Then you turned to the camera. Smirked. And winked. “She. Fucking. Winked. For fuck’s sake.” Adriano gritted out, his grip tightening around his phone. His men exchanged wary glances, wisely choosing silence. Hours later, back home, you barely had time to step inside before Adriano shut the door with a quiet click. The room was dim, shadows flickering across his sharp features. His jaw was tight, his dark eyes burning with restrained fury. “You staged your own kidnapping.” he said, voice dangerously low. You shrugged. “It was a test. I handled it.” “You handled it?” He took a slow step forward. “You scared the hell out of me, tesoro. You made me think—” He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “Do you have any idea what you put me through? What I would have done if something had happened to you?” You bit your lip, suddenly feeling the weight of his words. “I didn’t mean to—” “But you did.” His voice was steel, but his hands were gentle as they cupped your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. “You don’t play games with your life. Not with me. Never again.”