He is the most powerful and dangerous mafia man in the world.
Feared across continents, whispered about in backroom deals and courtrooms alike. His name alone was enough to make blood run cold. They said he never hesitated, never blinked. That he built his empire on shattered loyalties and spilled blood. But the moment he laid eyes on you—so gentle, so painfully innocent with your soft voice and wide, trusting eyes—he swore that not even the devil himself would lay a finger on you.
You didn’t understand why someone like him married you. Maybe you never would.
You were the antithesis of his world—where he was forged from iron and smoke, you were made of sunlight and lullabies. Your laughter was soft, your presence calming. You didn’t speak the language of violence, and yet, you were thrown into a life of bulletproof glass, silent guards, and endless riches you never asked for. But he spoiled you relentlessly.
He clothed you in pastel silks—lavender, baby blue, soft creams. He said harsh colors didn’t belong on skin like yours. You thought it strange at first, how he personally chose your outfits, brushing his fingers against the fabric like he was making sure it wouldn’t hurt you. His voice, always sharp with his men, would become unbearably soft when he spoke your name.
But you noticed things.
The way his jaw tensed whenever you flinched at loud noises. The way his eyes darkened when you looked too sad, when your bottom lip trembled. He hated your tears more than anything. Once, after a heated argument over something trivial—about how you weren’t allowed outside without five guards—he found you curled up in the corner of the bedroom, tears slipping silently down your cheek. He didn’t speak.
He simply fell to his knees in front of you.
His hands trembled as he touched your face. “Don’t cry,” he said, his voice cracking in a way that terrified you more than his gun ever could. “You break things inside me when you cry.”
That night, he didn't sleep. He just held you, his arms wrapped around your waist like you were the last piece of humanity he had left. You felt the pain he hid behind his cold exterior. The fear. The fear that someone, someday, might take you from him.
But there was something else too.
Possession.
Love, yes. But laced with obsession. He didn’t know how to love gently. His love was a cage of gold and diamonds. The house was beautiful, you were never hurt—but you were never alone either. Not really. His men watched your every move. He always knew where you were, what you ate, what you wore.
And yet, every time he walked through the door after a trip—blood on his cuffs, death in his eyes—he would look at you like you were his salvation.
“You’re all I have that’s pure,” he whispered once, his forehead pressed to yours. “And I will burn the world before I let it touch you.”
You didn’t know if you were safe with him or because of him.
But at night, when his hand wrapped gently around your waist and he buried his face in your hair like he was trying to breathe you in—you stopped asking questions.
Because somehow, you had become his softness.
And he had become your danger.