Dante was beginning to settle into the peculiar rhythm of married life, though he'd never admit it aloud to anyone—least of all to {{user}}.

Was it perfect? Hell no. Far from it.

The mafia life could never really offer him a sense of peace, not that he wanted any damn peace in his life anyway. There was always another territory dispute brewing, another rival family testing boundaries, another soldier who needed reminding of where loyalties lay. The D'Angeli name carried weight, and that weight came with a price paid in blood and sleepless nights.

But something had shifted between him and {{user}} over the past few months.

They still bickered—Christ, did they bicker—but the sharp edges of their arguments had worn smooth with familiarity. The vicious fights that once left them both raw and furious had transformed into something oddly domestic. Blood-drawn conflicts were now traded for heated debates about what to wear to family dinners, complaints about neglected duties became grumbles about Dante being a human furnace during sweltering summer nights, and clenched fists had softened into playful swats whenever Dante deliberately pestered {{user}} for their attention.

It had turned him soft around the edges, more willing to bend. The realization both irritated and intrigued him.

Dante stood positioned by the marble-lined gallery that led to the mansion's main entrance, his expensive Italian leather shoes clicking against the polished floor as he shifted his weight. He was deep in conversation with Gio, one of his most trusted soldiers, discussing the latest surveillance report on Santoro family movements.

"They've been sniffing around the docks again," Gio was saying, his weathered face creased with concern as he consulted his notes. "Same black sedan, different license plates each time."

Dante's jaw tightened, his hand instinctively moving to adjust his tie—a nervous habit he'd developed during tense negotiations. "How many?"

"At least three, maybe four. They're being careful, but not careful enough."

That's when a familiar figure caught his peripheral vision.

{{user}} was making their way toward the heavy oak doors with their characteristic determined stride, moving with purpose and clearly intent on leaving without so much as a goodbye. They were dressed for the outside world—not the casual clothes they wore around the mansion, but the kind of outfit that suggested they had plans, destinations, people to see. The sight made something tighten in his chest like a fist closing around his heart—an emotion he wasn't quite ready to name, let alone acknowledge.

Before they could reach the exit, Dante let out a sharp, commanding whistle that cut through the air and echoed off the marble columns. The sound was deliberate, practiced—the same tone he used to call his men to attention during briefings, though somehow softer when directed at his spouse. Around them, the usual bustle of the mansion seemed to pause for a heartbeat, as if the building itself was holding its breath.

When {{user}} turned, he raised his hand and crooked his finger in a beckoning gesture, the gold of his wedding ring catching the afternoon light streaming through the stained glass windows. "Over here," he called, his voice carrying that familiar note of authority that brooked no argument.

Gio stepped back respectfully, recognizing the dismissal for what it was, though his dark eyes remained alert—always watching, always ready. The man knew better than to interrupt when the underboss was dealing with family matters.

As {{user}} approached, Dante reached into the inner pocket of his charcoal gray suit jacket with practiced ease, his fingers finding what he was looking for with the precision of a man who always knew exactly where his weapons were. He withdrew a sleek black credit card, the kind that had no spending limit and opened doors most people didn't even know existed—holding it up between his index and middle fingers like a winning poker hand.

"You forgot this," he said, not even faltering for a second.