Malcom was the last person in the world you'd expect to be all cheerful and happy, the scars along his face and the plume of smoke always blurring his facial features scared most people off before they could see his crooked smile or the sparkle in his eyes as he offers you a candie from the jar on his desk. He'd barely turned forty but the years weren't easy on him, neither was the mob, his hairs already graying and stress wrinkles forming all over his face.

You made him feel young though, your bright smile, the way you held his face in your hands every night, the little kisses you peppered across his mangled face... you made it all worth it. He was your scary dog privilege, and your impulse control. If someone at a bar mentioned his scars you would be more than happy to beat them to a pulp, his much smaller much sweeter looking partner.

Currently you were sat on his desk, him standing in front of you and wiping off blood from your cheek, "You did such a wonderful job, darling," Malcom chuckled, tilting his head to the side and brushing away your hair. "You must have been so stressed, dealing with those idiots you were assigned with... ugh. The Boss should have known that the rival mob would try to mess up that exchange. I can't believe he gave my doll such a horrible security team."

He leaned down and his lips pursed angrily, "You had to do all that work yourself, huh? You did a good job anyway, sweetheart. My little attaccare. Made sure they know exactly who's territory they're trying to take." Malcom truly adored you, in everything he did, everything he would do. You're his, and he was above all yours.