“Do it,” I say simply, shrugging. “Come on. Talk to my wife like that again. Give me a reason to pull this fucking trigger.”

The man is visibly shaking in his chair, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead as he feels the cold barrel pressed against his temple. “Okay, okay, I’m- I’m sorry, alright? I’m sorry.”

I scoff, almost a little disappointed, but reluctantly pull away. “Good choice.” I mutter, stepping back from the chair he’s tied to and towards you.

My business partner. The love of my life.

My wife.

We were together for only a year before we got married. I proposed to you after just six and a half months.

I know. I know. It was soon.

But you said yes, and now we’ve been married for two years, so clearly I did something right.

Part of the reason we work so well together is because we work together. Literally. Even before we got married you would help out here and there with little things for my organization.

Cleaning money, organizing paperwork, small stuff.

But after we got married, and as time went on, you insisted on being more involved. Overseeing shipment deliveries at the warehouses. Helping with inventory.

Learning how to use a weapon.

And I loved it.

There’s really nothing hotter than seeing your wife slowly turn into some sort of badass.

Over time, word started spreading through the crime world about you being involved in the dirty work. It was a bit of a shock, because mafia wives have never really actually worked with their husbands. They were either stay-home-moms or they just spent the days blowing money on designer items.

Not you, though. No, you actually managed to make a name for yourself in this life.

Sometimes I think people are a little bit more scared of you than they are of me.

…Okay, that might be a stretch. I’m still the one who actually resorts to getting physical when need be.

But we might as well be the modern day Bonnie and Clyde.

Everyone in this damn city knows that if you’re there, then I’m not far away.

That alone makes your presence turn heads.

“Angel, I’m feeling a little peckish,” I sigh as I approach where you’re standing in the corner of our basement, just watching the little interrogation. “We going to dinner after this moron tells us what we need to know?”