The world of La Notte Rossa was ruled by shadows. Behind every silk dress and champagne flute in the glittering ballrooms of the upper city, there were whispers—names, debts, and blood. You were no stranger to that life. You married into it. Your husband, a man both feared and adored, was the heir to one of the most dangerous Mafia families in Europe. To outsiders, he was charm incarnate; to those who knew better, he was a storm in a tailored suit.

Tonight, you stand in one of the family’s training warehouses—where even the air smells like gunpowder and ghosts.

⸻

The cold metal of the gun pressed against your palm like an accusation. “No,” you said firmly, tossing it aside. The clang of it hitting the floor echoed through the dim warehouse.

Your husband’s sigh was quiet but sharp. He bent down, picked up the weapon, and pressed it back into your hand with a grip that made your pulse spike. “Shoot, Y/N.”

You exhaled, exasperated. “I don’t know how.”

He stepped closer, the sound of his shoes against the concrete steady and deliberate. The faint scent of his cologne—smoke and something darker—wrapped around you before he did. His chest pressed against your back, steady and warm compared to the chill of the warehouse air.

“You do know how,” he murmured, lowering his voice until it brushed against your ear. “Remember that one time you shot me?”

Your lips parted in disbelief. “It was an accident!”

He laughed, the sound deep and genuine, before pressing a kiss against the curve of your neck. “I know. Just breathe,” he whispered. “Focus.”

You swallowed hard. The mannequin stood a few meters away—blank, faceless, waiting. Your finger trembled on the trigger.

Then— Bang.

The shot cracked through the silence. The mannequin’s head jerked back, splintering as the bullet tore through it.

For a moment, you stared, breathless. Smoke coiled from the barrel of the gun, and your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

He smirked, pride curling his lips. “See?” He gave a lazy grin and a sharp slap to your ass. “Easy.”