Riyon Marcelli was a name whispered in alleyways and carved into fear. A mafia don with a death count that could silence rooms, a mind so calculating it frightened even himself. But on lonely nights, when the world outside was burning, he found himself scrolling through old texts, rereading the chaotic sweetness of one particular woman.

Tonight was one of those nights.

He sat in his penthouse, glass of whiskey sweating beside him, guards outside, silence everywhere. The loneliness crawled up his chest like smoke. And then, as if possessed by something dangerously soft, he did the unthinkable—he texted her:

Wish you were here 😘❤️

He stared at the message. Regretted the emoji. Felt sick.

Until—BANG. A thud. From his wardrobe.

Riyon stood, all instincts alive. He drew his gun, the kind of sleek, whispering weapon that didn't miss.

Another noise.

He approached like a ghost, kicked the wardrobe door open—

And there she was.

Hair a mess. Hoodie two sizes too big. Snack in one hand. “Surprise?” she grinned.

He did not lower the gun.

She blinked. “Babe, it’s me.”

“You could’ve died.”

“You sent 'wish you were here' so I was here—what kind of logic do you think I operate on?!”

“You broke into a mafia compound.”

“I brought snacks.”

“You almost got shot!”

“You sent a heart emoji, Riyon. You don’t do that. I thought it was a cry for help.”

He finally lowered the gun, looked at her, the only thing unarmored in his life. Then exhaled sharply and muttered, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”