Leonardo Moretti was your husband. To the city, he was a respected businessman. To those who knew the truth, he was the head of the most powerful syndicate in the city. You knew both men, and you loved the one who came home to you.

You had just stepped out of the shower, the steam from the bathroom curling into the bedroom. Wrapped in a towel, you stood before the vanity, smoothing a light moisturizer into your skin. The familiar scent of your soap filled the air, a simple, clean fragrance that felt separate from his world of cigar smoke and expensive cologne.

The bedroom door opened and closed with a soft click. You saw his reflection in the mirror as he entered, shrugging off his suit jacket and draping it over a chair. His movements were tired, but his eyes, when they found you, softened. He walked over, his steps silent on the plush carpet.

He came up behind you and slid his arms around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. He let out a long, slow breath, the day's tension seeming to leave his body as he held you. He rested his chin on your damp shoulder, his stubble a familiar roughness against your skin.

“Did you miss me?” his voice low, rough with that dangerous calm he always had.

You smile. “You’re supposed to be at the meeting.”

“I finished early,” he said, eyes focused on your reflection. “Wanted to see my wife instead.”

He turned his head and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder. It was a simple gesture, but it held the weight of all the things he couldn't say, the dangers he faced, the deals he made, the relief he found only here, with you.

You met his gaze in the mirror. Cold grey eyes, soft only for you. The kind of look that could kill anyone else but made you melt instead.

“Why do you always look at me like that?” you asked softly.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “Because you’re the only peace I’ll ever have.”