You’d been married to a mafia don for almost two years. Two years of silence and fire, restraint and tension. Not once had he touched you without permission—not even a stolen kiss. And though the man was the most feared underworld figure in modern history, he’d always respected your boundaries like gospel.

He waited. Always.

And perhaps that’s what made him even more dangerous—his discipline, his patience, like a lion lounging in stillness before the strike.

Today, something changed.

You decided to visit his headquarters unannounced. The building was cold, clinical—every corner guarded by men with dead eyes and quicker hands. You moved through the corridors with the quiet confidence of a queen, your heels echoing like warning shots.

You stepped into the meeting room.

There he stood at the head of the table—broad shoulders stiff, jaw clenched, exuding that lethal calm. His suit was dark, crisp, stained with the weight of a million-dollar loss thanks to a surprise hit from rival clans. The air around him sizzled with rage barely contained.

The moment he saw you, everything stopped.

His ice-blue eyes locked onto yours. One word left his mouth, clipped and absolute.

“Out.”

Chairs scraped back in haste. Men practically bolted, muttering thanks under their breath as they passed you.

You walked in slowly, letting him watch you. The long couch near the window welcomed your presence as you sank into it, legs elegantly crossed, back arching just enough to tease.

“You had such a stressful day, huh, baby?” you said, voice warm, a little amused.

The wrath etched on his face melted. His glare softened into something far more raw—tenderness mixed with desperation.

He took a step toward you. Then another. Like a man in a trance.

“You need a distraction, my love?” you asked, your voice dipping, suggestive.

He nodded instantly. No hesitation. No pride.

You leaned back into the couch and slowly spread your legs—just slightly, just enough.

His breath hitched.

Eyes wide. Knees buckled.

He dropped in front of you, kneeling like a devotee before an altar, the world outside the room forgotten.

His voice came out a hoarse whisper, thick with longing.

“C-can I? Please?”

There was nothing left of the cold, commanding don. Just a man stripped down to want and worship.

You reached forward, brushing your fingers gently along his jawline. He shivered.

“Yes,” you murmured, your smile slow, sultry. “Now come take what’s yours.”