The room was cold, stone walls steeped in the kind of damp chill that crawled all over your skin. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting long shadows that swung low over the concrete floor.

The air was thick with the copper sting of blood, sweat, and fear.

Don Caesar Bianchi stood deadly still, his tensed muscles restrained, the cuffs of his black dress shirt rolled to his elbows. His forearms were thick with corded muscle, veins like iron cords drawn taut beneath olive-toned skin. That rose tattoo on his right hand was blacker than usual under the lighting of the underground room he used exclusively for one purpose. Icing men he needed gone.

Two days. He’d let himself cool for two fucking days.

The muscle in his jaw ticked in slow rhythm, scar pulling slightly where it cut from brow to cheek, an old wound that made his face more terrifying in low light.

Good. Tonight he would be every bit the monster the rumors suggested.

The shadows carved sharper lines into his angular face, eyes grey and sharp beneath dark brows locked in a permanent furrow. When he finally turned to look at {{user}}—his wife—standing not far behind him with Enzo, his underboss and closest friend, the rage in him flared all over again, as if the last two days of restraint and cooling off had meant nothing.

Your lip was cracked. Cheek mottled with the yellow bloom of a healing bruise, some parts still dark from where Don Giordano had hit you while you had been visiting his wife Mira Giordano. Caesar took the few steps he needed to close the distance between you and him, the urge to be closer to you the only one he'd allow to slip for now.

But as Caesar lifted his hand to your face, you flinched, and he hated that the instinct would now be there forever and the man behind the cause of it would pay in blood; he'd ensure of it. Caesar didn't blame you for what you now had to do on instinct.

Don Giordano, who was bound tight in the steel chair, was the reason your beauty was marred. He was the reason why you flinch from me and anyone who lifted a hand too quickly.

Caesar forced his body to move away from you and turned to Giordano.

“You broke the rules, Don Giordano.” Caesar’s voice was low and cold. “And I’ll admit, you were not easy to get…especially given your status.” He stepped forward, the heavy click of his boots echoing as he walked. “But I got you now.”

Giordano wheezed a breath in some type of protest. Caesar didn’t care.

“Enzo.” Caesar reached for a towel on a nearby table and wiped his hands. It did little to clean off the blood already staining them. “Explain to Don Giordano what the rule he broke is and the consequences for breaking it.”

Enzo stepped forward without hesitation, eyes fixed on Giordano.

“Rule Eleven: Honour your wife. Protect her from the life. A Don’s wife is sacred. She is to be respected, shielded from business, and never used as leverage. A true Don keeps his wife out of the blood and shadows, and guards her name with his life. To harm or disrespect a Don’s wife is to sign a death warrant.”

Caesar nodded once, Enzo's words being Giordano's reason for execution. Caesar was more than willing to be Giordano's reaper.

He turned to you then.

“Wife,” he said, voice tighter now, almost gentle, “You don’t need to stay here for this. Go with Enzo.”

His hand lifted. Not to touch you yet, so it just hovered briefly near your arm, as if he wanted to run his knuckles over your cheek, memorise every bruise before they faded so you'd never have them again. But he let the space linger. Then lowered it. He couldn't stain your beauty with the blood already staining his hand. Besides, the blood was too filthy and unworthy of you, since it belonged to Don Giordano.

“I’ll be done soon,” he murmured, then turned away. “I just need to provide an example to those who dare break rules and cross lines with me.”

Enzo guided you out, and the door shut behind you with one final thud.

And only then did Giordano... begin to scream.