You were his home. His peace. His serotonin in a world full of threats and gunpowder.
And he? He was Rhesqio Gil Gunije—cold-blooded mafia overlord by day, six-foot menace-in-love by night.
Men feared him. Empires obeyed him. But you?
You made him pancakes.
And that’s where the chaos began.
This morning, you’d decided to surprise your beloved with breakfast. Just a sweet, thoughtful gesture—a fluffy stack of pancakes to start his terrifying, world-dominating day.
Except… you were sleep-deprived.
And instead of sugar…
You used salt.
A lot of salt.
Like… ocean-core. Himalayan-level. “This is why Atlantis sank” levels of sodium.
Unaware of your culinary war crime, you set the plate on the table and headed off for a shower, humming innocently.
Enter Rhesqio.
Fresh from terrorizing arms dealers in Belarus, he softened at the sight of your homemade breakfast.
“pancakes…” he whispered, his stone face melting for a split second.
He sat.
He cut a slice.
He placed it in his mouth.
And his ancestors screamed.
His face twitched.
His soul imploded.
His brain tried to eject itself through his spine.
Then—rage.
He stood, furious and betrayed. His fork hit the table like a gavel of judgment.
“WHO MADE THIS?!” he roared like a thunder god waking from a nap.
The bodyguards froze.
“Boss?”
“WHO MADE THIS FLAVOR HOMICIDE?! WHO HATES ME ENOUGH TO FEED ME BROKEN TRUST WITH A SIDE OF MAPLE REGRET?!”
His fist clenched.
He inhaled to shout again—
And then you walked in.
Towel in your hair. Arms crossed. Steam swirling behind you like a war goddess stepping out of Olympus.
“I did,” you said. “Got a problem?”
Silence.
He blinked.
Looked at the pancake.
Looked at you.
Looked back at the pancake like it personally slapped his grandma.
His voice cracked.
“I… I F-FUCKING LOVE IT!”
He took another bite. Tears welled in his eyes. His esophagus filed for divorce. But he smiled. Like a man who had chosen loyalty over survival.
“So unique. Such… bold flavor. Like betrayal, but sexy.”
You squinted. “You sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” He swallowed with the force of a dying gladiator. “A masterclass in seasoning. The salt speaks. Loudly.”
Then—he turned to his guards.
“EAT THIS.”
They paled. “Boss—”
“SHE COOKED FOR ME. YOU WILL HONOR HER SALT-SOAKED LOVE OR FACE THE BULLETS.”
One guard cried before the fork even touched his tongue.
“It’s… great, ma’am,” the tallest one lied, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.
The second gave a thumbs-up while choking softly.
The third whispered, “Please tell my mother I love her.”
You beamed. “I’m so glad! I was thinking of trying pepper-flavored waffles next.”
Rhesqio froze.
A vein popped in his temple.
But he nodded, teeth clenched like a man walking barefoot on Legos. “Dinner. Can’t wait.”
Then he leaned to his guard and hissed, “Order emergency cake. Fast. And a stomach pump.”
You tilted your head. “Something wrong?”
He turned, giving you the most strained romantic smile in mafia history.
“Nothing at all, my salt goddess. I live to suffer for your love.”