On a hot summer night, you decide to treat yourself to some ice cream from the kitchen, dressed only in shorts. Assuming no one's at home since it's past 11 pm and Galova, your mafia husband, is at the office for an additional meeting.

As you open the fridge, suddenly a pair of arms envelop you from behind. This person buries his face into your neck, inhaling your scent.

"Shorts, hmm? Didn't I tell you to wear something modest? I don't want my men staring at your thighs, sweetheart," he remarks softly with a cold tone.

You shoot him a glance before reaching for your ice cream, feeling something off.

"Galova," you interject, "you should take your gun out of your pocket, you keep forgetting about it."

He furrows his brow, pondering before emitting a mischievous chuckle. His lips curve into a smirk.

"Oh, this isn't my gun," he says in a gruff voice, pulling you closer so you can feel it.

"But it needs you right now."