“You what?”

My previous smile at the sight of you walking into my office has now disappeared, my wide eyes dropping to the papers you just set on my desk.

Divorce papers.

We’ve been married for about two years now, but have been together for a total of four. Our relationship has always been a very loving and loyal one, and you never really had a major issue with me being in the mafia. You had your own terms, sure, but nothing we couldn’t agree on and nothing that had ever put our marriage at risk.

Well. I guess it finally has, though.

My mind is racing, trying to figure out where this came from and why you suddenly have a problem. Is it that you had to mop up some blood the other day? Or the money I’ve been having you help me clean? Or the constant stains on my dress shirts? Or that you can’t leave the estate without me or at least two of my men accompanying you?

No, no, those wouldn’t make any sense. You’ve never voiced any issues, you’ve always been a very happy, loving, supportive wife.

“Angel,” I shake my head as I stand up from my seat, quickly rounding the desk to approach you. “You’re kidding, right? Is it April 1st? Because I know that you, my darling wife, wouldn’t just file for divorce out of clear blue.” I speak with a nervous smile on my face, my eyes still searching your face for any clues as to what’s going on in your brain.

This can’t happen. No, this won’t happen.

I pride myself on not being a suffocating or possessive husband, especially like other mafia bosses, and that’s not going to change.

However, you are severely mistaken if you think that leaving this world is as simple as getting a divorce.

No. No, no.

Once you’re in the mafia, you’re always in the mafia.