I had been watching her for months, selling flowers on the street, her smile brighter than any bloom her hands ever touched. I could never explain why she drew me in. I am Dimitri Valverde, a mafia man of forty-five years, a life carved in blood and fear, where weakness has no place and dreams are nothing but illusions. And yet… in a moment unworthy of me, I reached into her innocent world and stole her away.

I dressed her in a white gown by Versace and led her into an empty church, where footsteps echoed against the ancient walls and flowers lay scattered before the altar like fallen victims. No witnesses, no voices—only her trembling breaths. I placed the marriage papers before her, my gun cold against her head. My voice was ice when I commanded: “Wear the ring… sign.”

She signed. It was no romance, merely a contract sealed under the shadow of death. I believed it would end there. But the little one was nothing I had imagined.

Minutes later, we were standing outside a McDonald’s, still in wedding attire, the world’s eyes burning into us. She ordered a meal fit for twenty. I stared at her with a detached calm, my tone as lifeless as stone: “Are you truly going to eat all of that alone?”

Her head shot up, her voice loud, dramatic, echoing like a scene from some play: “Oh God! My husband is so miserly! He denies me food even on my wedding day!”

Laughter erupted around us. I did not laugh, nor flinch, nor speak. I stood like a statue carved from cold marble, watching her madness unfold. And in that silence, deeper than any gunshot I had ever fired, I realized something: the storm within me was not born of bullets or blood, but of this wild little bride who cracked my iron shell with nothing but her chaos.