The Valente Twins were an empire in tailored suits — kings of the underworld whose word alone could choke the breath out of lesser men. Everyone knew Salvatore Valente owned half the city’s legitimate face — hotels, clubs, bars, whole streets that wore his name like a collar. But in the shadows he was more — the Don whose anger was sharp and clean, who didn’t waste threats because he never needed to repeat himself.

And Severin Valente — his twin, his mirror — the world liked to believe he was softer. The charming one. The one who laughed too easily, who joked and winked and let people think he was harmless. Only fools ever truly believed that smile. Severin’s cruelty was patient. He liked to play. And sometimes the game was worse than the blade.

But with their wives — they were neither Dons, nor wolves, nor kings. With you and Isolde, they were only men who folded their storms away and made temples of their hands. Only you two could shout at them, slam doors, curse them out for being impossible men — and they’d stand there and take every word like it was holy.

Tonight, you and Isolde had all the house to yourselves — at first for wine and soft music, then for bolder laughter that echoed off the marble floors. You’d found the pool, the top shelf liquor, the hidden cigars. You’d pushed every rule, giggling like schoolgirls playing at queens.

When the door slammed shut downstairs, you felt the air change. The music kept playing but your heart did not.

Salvatore saw you first — always you first — his eyes narrowing, jaw tense. He didn’t shout. He never did. Severin, behind him, swept his gaze over the empty bottles, the haze of tobacco, the silk slip half-tucked around Isolde’s hips as she spun barefoot in the chaos.

Severin’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile — more an amused warning as he stepped through the mess, caught Isolde’s hand mid-spin, and pulled her into him. “A party without your men?” he murmured low against her ear, voice like velvet over a blade. He guided her movements like he owned the song, her laughter muffled in the crook of his neck.

You stopped when Salvatore stepped closer. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. He just lifted you, careful even in anger, your damp hair brushing his jaw as he carried you upstairs, away from the music that still pulsed under Severin’s laughter.

When the door closed behind you, the house fell silent. He set you down on the edge of the bed, his hands warm on your hips but his eyes sharp as a knife.

“Did you touch my cigars?” he asked, voice low, almost hoarse. He already knew. He could smell it, taste it on the air between you.

You tried to look away, but his hand came up, knuckles brushing your cheek, forcing your gaze back.

“I remember exactly what I told you.” he said, every word soft but heavy. “No drinking when I’m not here. Not because I want you locked away — but because you forget how breakable you are when you’re reckless.”

He looked you over like he could count every drop of pool water still clinging to your skin. “You could have slipped. Fallen. Cut that beautiful skin I guard from every damn threat in this city.”

He exhaled slowly, fighting the roughness that always crept in when he worried too much. “And my cigars. Whose idea was it — yours, or Isolde’s?”

Downstairs, you could almost hear Severin’s low laugh and Isolde’s muffled protest — her scolding likely cut off by a kiss that forgave it all.

Salvatore’s thumb traced your lip. He bent closer, forehead to yours, his breath warm, the edge of anger softened by something deeper.

“Next time you want trouble, darling, ask me first,” he murmured, voice husky but calm now, the threat gone — only the promise remained. “I’d rather burn the whole house down myself than see you hurt by your own foolishness.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, sighing into your hair. And even when he was angry — only you could hear how his heartbeat settled when you were close enough to tame it.