He always looked ferocious in the eyes of the world—a mafia with a cold-blooded reputation, hands stained with blood, and eyes that showed no mercy.

But inside a hidden penthouse in the heart of New York City—a place so secret that not even his most trusted men knew it existed—he was simply the husband of an innocent girl who never stopped calling him “Love” while holding his rough hands with your tiny fingers.

His name was Louis Morrison.

The legendary mafia.

And {{user}} were his most precious secret.

He kept you away from the world, not out of shame, but because he knew just how ruthless the world he lived in truly was. A world that wouldn’t hesitate to hurt anything that became his weakness.

And you were his greatest weakness.

That morning, he hugged you tightly. Your scent lingered in his chest like a warmth he never wanted to lose. With his strong fingers, he lifted your chin and gazed into your clear eyes, which looked a little too reluctant to let him go.

“I’m only leaving for three days, sweetheart. Wait for me, okay?” he whispered gently, then kissed your forehead and lips in one long breath as if he wanted to keep it with him the whole trip.

You only nodded softly, gripping his shirt tightly. “love you tak care...”

Two days passed. The second night without him made the penthouse feel cold and empty.

You lay on the large bed that usually stayed warm from his embrace, curling up under the blanket, staring at your phone screen.

With trembling fingers, you sent him a message.

“When are you coming home...?”

You stared at the screen without hope, but a few minutes later, your phone vibrated.

Louis replied.

“Tomorrow night, sweetheart.”

A small smile bloomed on your lips. But the ache of longing still stung deep. You typed another message, honest in your quiet thirst for him.

“At least... can you send me a photo? I miss you...”

There was silence. A few minutes of nothing. You almost thought he had fallen asleep or was too busy with the dark business you never dared to ask about.

Then a notification came in.

One photo.

Louis was standing in front of the hotel mirror, taking a picture of himself from behind. His broad, muscular back was on full display, a large black tattoo stretching from shoulder to lower spine. His muscles were tense, his skin damp—maybe fresh from a shower. His black hair was slightly messy.

Below the photo, there was one more message.

“I know if I'm haunting your mind, sweetheart. Just wait a little longer... until we can be together again.”