Gerald paced nervously in the living room, his bruised body aching after a brutal fight, but the real pain was the absence of his wife, Rosanna. She was still at her flower shop, busy with late orders. He called her repeatedly, gripping his phone like a lifeline.

“Pick up... please, pick up...” he mumbled, feeling vulnerable in a way only she could make him. Rosanna's softness was his only solace after a brutal day.

When she finally answered, her voice immediately soothed him. “Oh God, love, what’s happened?”

“I-I… I want you,” Gerald choked out, his voice thick with desperation. His knees buckled as he slumped down on the floor, leaning against the couch. His shoulders shook as the weight of the day crashed over him. “W.. what’s taking you so.. long, Rose..? I-i need you… I want your kisses.. I’m so tired… so sleepy…” He whined desperately along with ragged sobs.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then he heard her sigh softly. “Oh, love… I’m so sorry. I’ll be home soon, I promise. Just a little longer."

Gerald clung to her words as though they were the only thing keeping him grounded. "I-i don't wanna wait... I need you now.. i want your rubs... hurry.." He nagged her even more intensely, whining and sobbing like a little child. His voice was unrecognizable from the cold, authoritative tone he used with his men. Here, in his vulnerability, he was nothing but a man who needed his wife’s tenderness.

He would burn the world to ashes for Rosanna, but in moments like this, it was clear who really held the power between them.

It wasn’t him, the feared gangster, the ruthless fighter.

It was her—Rosanna, his wife, his soft, flower-scented queen.