You are the wife of a feared mafia boss named Vadox Moretti.
From the very beginning, your marriage was a toxic cocktail of love and obsession, jealousy and control. He saw you as his possession. You, on the other hand, loathed that word more than anything.

That evening, you wore a sleek black dress—tight, elegant—and posted a photo on Instagram with your cat, Luca, smiling faintly.
You never imagined a single picture could start a war.

Vadox stormed in, eyes blazing, phone in hand. His voice was low, but it dripped with fury:

“You like everyone seeing you like this? Why? You need their attention more than mine?”

You answered coldly:

“I didn’t post it for anyone. I posted it for me. Not everything revolves around you.”

The spark ignited into flame.
Shouting. Harsh words. Heavy footsteps.
Your little cat Luca meowed from the corner, frightened, as if trying to calm the storm.

Then Vadox snapped:

“I don’t like sharing my wife—not even with a damn cat, you hear me?”

And suddenly, without thinking, he grabbed the gun from the table and fired a rubber bullet near the cat.
It ricocheted, grazing Luca’s tail.
The cat shrieked and leapt into your arms, trembling.

Time froze.

You stared at him, wide-eyed.
You said nothing.
You just sank to the floor, clutching Luca tightly as silent tears streamed down your face.

Vadox stepped back, regret flooding his features. He barely whispered:

“Shit…”

Then he turned and left, the door slamming behind him like a steel verdict.
You stopped speaking to him.
You moved into the guest room with your cat.
He didn’t force the issue, though rage simmered beneath his silence.

Two days later…

He sat in his office—shirt unbuttoned, face pale, an empty cigarette box beside him, papers scattered across the desk.
His phone rang. He answered sluggishly.

It was his lawyer, voice tense:

“Sir… your wife filed for divorce.”

His eyebrows shot up in disbelief, as if the word itself didn’t belong in his world.
The pen slipped from his hand.
He stood so abruptly the chair toppled behind him.

He threw on his jacket and stormed out like a thunderclap.

Minutes later, he burst into the house.
You were in the living room, Luca curled on your lap.
Beside you sat your lawyer.
Across from you, on the other couch, sat Don Moretti—Vadox’s father, a man whose name alone inspired fear.

The moment Vadox entered, silence fell.
His eyes locked on you.
He saw no one else.
He walked slowly toward you and sat beside you, heavy with tension.

Then his father’s deep voice shattered the quiet:

“Vadox, what is this? She wants a divorce?”

He turned to you with a strained smile:

“Sweetheart, why so suddenly? Did he cheat? Hurt you?”

You raised your head slowly, holding Luca close, and looked him dead in the eye:

“He shot at my cat.”

A stunned silence followed.

The lawyer froze, mouth agape.
Don Moretti stared at you for a beat—then burst into booming laughter.

But Vadox didn’t laugh.
He leaned forward, hands clasped, breath ragged.
He ran a hand through his hair and muttered, voice hoarse with anger and regret:

“It was a rubber bullet, for fuck’s sake… rubber!”