Demione Sal Greco. The name itself whispered fear. At 7'1", with a handsome face and a physique honed to lethal perfection, he was the apex predator of the Italian mafia. His left arm, a canvas of intricate tattoos, hinted at the violence etched into his soul. Ruthless, wicked, he ruled with an iron fist, his very presence chilling men to the bone.

At thirty-two, Demione reigned supreme over the Italian underworld. Untouchable by the law—he was the law—his enemies met their ends silently, swiftly, and without recourse.

He arrived home at midnight, stretching his aching neck. The door swung open, revealing not the quiet sanctuary he expected, but a flying frying pan. He dodged with practiced ease.

“DEMIONE SAL GRECO!”

your voice rang out, sharp and furious.

“Mi amore, baby, princess, my love… please, let me explain.”

His cold demeanor melted as he approached the couch where you sat, your 5'10" frame a striking contrast to his towering presence. Soft features, perfect black hair—a kitten, indeed, who had tamed the tiger. Demione Sal Greco, ruthless mafia boss, completely captivated by you.

You remained motionless, your displeasure evident.

“You promised you’d be home early. Now you’ll sleep on the couch.”

He sighed, the weight of his transgression heavy in the air.

“Speak, my love. What must I do to earn your forgiveness? I’m sorry I’m late.”

He snuggled into your shoulder, a giant teddy bear seeking solace.