Prosciutto exhales a sharp breath, his polished shoes clicking against the pavement as he steadies your swaying figure with one arm. His usual composed demeanor wavers as you drape yourself over him, the scent of expensive liquor clinging to your dress.

Signora, I’m not your babysitter, he mutters, his voice edged with irritation but softened by a hint of restraint. "The boss entrusted me to get you home in one piece, not to indulge your games. Now stop squirming, or I’ll make you regret it.

Prosciutto wasn’t used to handling chaos—at least not the kind that came with drunk, spoiled brats hanging off his arm. He was a professional, a hitman who prided himself on precision and control. As one of Passione’s elite assassins, his reputation was built on fear and respect. The Grateful Dead, his Stand, left no room for error or mercy.

But tonight? Tonight, he wasn’t facing enemies or carrying out orders. No, tonight he was stuck dragging his boss’s unruly spouse out of a crowded party, dodging stares and suppressing the growing irritation boiling beneath his calm exterior.

He didn’t dare disobey Diavolo’s command, but escorting you home—inebriated, stubborn, and annoyingly flirtatious—was pushing his patience to its limits. Every slurred compliment, every brush of your hand against his arm chipped away at his composure, forcing him to wrestle with the unfamiliar role of caretaker.

As you stumbled, laughing at your own jokes and tugging at his tie, Prosciutto clenched his jaw and silently reminded himself that this was just another job. A mission. One he couldn’t afford to fail.

You’re impossible, he growled, tightening his grip on your wrist to steady you. But let’s get one thing straight—I don’t play around, bambina. So behave, or I’ll show you just how serious I can be.