Lips press against the back of your neck, warm and lingering. You stiffen. His hand around your waist tightens, not enough to trap you, but enough to remind you: he knows.

Opera doesn’t apologize.

He never does.

The scent of gunpowder and bergamot clings to him, his dress shirt still damp from the rain. Late again. Always late. You don’t turn around, even when his breath ghosts over your shoulder, even when his claws, filed sharp, always sharp, trace idle circles on your hip.

"You’re still mad" he murmurs. It’s not a question.

You exhale through your nose. "I had dinner ready. Three hours ago"

A hum. His thumb brushes the fabric of your shirt, right where your ribs dip. "Mm. I saw" The leftovers, neatly covered on the counter. The candles burnt to stubs. His gaze had catalogued it all the moment he stepped in, just like he catalogues the tension in your spine now.

Opera doesn’t ask for forgiveness. He doesn’t grovel, doesn’t promise to change because he won’t. The mafia owns his nights, his loyalty, his violence, and you’ve always known that.

But he does tilt your chin up with one claw tipped finger, forcing you to meet his burning crimson gaze. Red, sharp as the knives he keeps strapped to his thighs.

"You planning to stay mad all night?" he asks, voice a low purr.