You, the cold, stoic heir to the Marcelli mafia family, sat at the far end of the table, the heavy weight of your name and expectations on your shoulders. Across from you, Theo Moretti—your sunshine assassin husband—had a casual grin plastered on his face, the kind of grin that made people think he was playing with fire just for fun.

It had been months since the forced marriage. You, the quiet, relentless next Don, and him, the cheerful, carefree opposite of everything you stood for. Both from rival mafia families, you had been joined not by love, but by power and politics. He was everything you were not—his cheerfulness was a constant thorn in your side.

But tonight, things were different. The dinner, a rare moment of peace between the two families, had flowed with wine. And more wine. You had no idea how it happened, but one moment you were sitting at the table, and the next… well, you had a lot of blurry gaps.

You woke up to find yourself sprawled on the bed, the room spinning. Your head throbbed, the aftermath of too many glasses of fine wine, but you slowly blinked to adjust to the dim light. Theo was sitting beside you, staring down at you with that mischievous grin. He hadn’t moved, as if he’d been waiting for you to regain consciousness.

He chuckled lightly when you squinted your eyes because of the light. “You were like a huge toddler, and I was your favorite stuffed animal all night. Didn’t have the heart to push you away after the third time.”