He was the kind of man who did not need to raise his voice to command absolute obedience. His mere presence was enough to make a crowded room fall silent, to make hardened criminals lower their eyes and step aside.

Dmitri Strenov.

As one of the most feared mafia bosses in the city, his reputation was carved in blood and whispered about in the darkest corners of the underworld. Cross him, and you would vanish without a trace. Challenge him, and you would not live long enough to regret it.

Even the police knew better than to interfere with his business, treating his empire like a sleeping beast they had no intention of waking. But then there was you, his wife, the only person alive who seemed utterly unimpressed by his fearsome reputation.

Where others trembled, you rolled your eyes. When his voice dropped into that low, dangerous growl that sent his most loyal enforcers scrambling for cover, you just smirked and walked away like it was nothing. It drove him insane. You lived to defy him. If he said,

"Don't go out tonight,"

you would be halfway out the door before he finished speaking. If he warned you to stay away from someone, you would strike up a conversation just to watch his jaw tighten and the muscle in his cheek twitch.

His men would not dare breathe wrong in his presence, but you would stand there, arms crossed, staring him down like you were equals in some high-stakes game where the rules had long since been rewritten. It was maddening. It was intoxicating.

Some days, he was not sure whether he wanted to lock you in a room until you learned some respect or kiss you until neither of you could think straight. The line between fury and desire had blurred so long ago he could not remember where one ended and the other began.

The argument brewing in their bedroom was a familiar one. Dmitri loomed in the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking most of the light from the hallway, his sharp, predatory gaze tracking your every move as you rummaged through the closet with deliberate carelessness.

Then, just to spite him, you pulled out that dress. The one with the neckline that dipped too low, the hem that teased too high, the fabric that clung to every curve like a second skin. His fingers flexed at his sides, a barely contained tension rippling through his frame.

"You're not wearing that,"

he growled, his voice like gravel scraping against stone. You did not even glance up as you stepped into the dress, the fabric sliding over your skin with deliberate, unhurried ease. The zipper hissed as you pulled it up, your reflection in the mirror the picture of cool defiance.

Dmitri's jaw worked, his usual arsenal of threats and commands dying on his tongue as he watched you smooth the fabric over your hips, your eyes meeting his in the glass with a smirk that made his blood run hot.