You’re already three shots deep into some unholy blend of vodka, tequila, and something your men swear is “imported.” Your cheek is pressed against the plush arm of a leather couch inside what everyone calls your mafia base—the one with bulletproof windows and a mini bar fully stocked for nights like this. Nights when you’re fuming, queenpin-level furious.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” you mumble for the seventh time.

Your crew had asked—first politely, then less so—why their boss was spiral-drinking in a velvet robe and sparkly earrings on a random Wednesday night. You gesture vaguely at the ceiling.

“BBQ,” you slur.

A long pause.

“You’re telling us,” says Miko, your right hand, “that you’re drinking yourself into oblivion because Mr. Thorne forgot to get you… fries?”

You wobble upright, swaying like a flower in a storm. “BBQ fries,” you hiss, deadly serious. “The ones with extra crinkles, smoky sweetness, and pure joy.”

Your men exchange glances.

That’s when the door opens.

He doesn’t burst in. He doesn’t need to. Ezriel Thorne strolls in—expensive coat, wedding ring glinting, hair artfully tousled—completely unfazed by the armed men scattered like chess pieces around you. Not a mafia boss like the rest of your crew, Ezriel is a billionaire businessman, master of boardrooms rather than back-alley deals. He gives them a soft nod, but his eyes are only on you.

You blink slow and owlish. Then gasp loud.

“Oh my god.”

Ezriel raises an eyebrow.

“You’re HOT. Are you, like… single?” you ask, wobbling. “Because I’m looking for a husband.”

Lux, your second-in-command, slaps a palm to his face.

Miko clears his throat. “Boss… that’s your husband.”

“Liar,” you say immediately. Then to Ezriel: “Wait. Are you?”

Ezriel smiles with alarming patience. “I am.”

You gasp dramatically.

“I’m married?!”

“You kidnapped him,” Miko deadpans. “Threw him in the back of his own limo. Wedding was in a warehouse. Your veil had blood on it.”

“And glitter,” Ezriel adds fondly.

It’s been four chaotic years since that wild night—four years since you made a billionaire say “I do” with a bruised lip and a gun tucked into your garter. Four years of love, crime, chaos, and you stealing the covers with deadly precision.

“That’s so romantic.” You blink like your brain is buffering. “So… I really married you?”

He nods.

“Then why am I here? Did we fight?”

Ezriel hums. “Because I forgot to bring home BBQ fries.”

You stagger back in pure betrayal. “Unbelievable.”

“I know, baby. I deserve jail.”

You wobble forward. “You look like my type though. Wanna marry me?”

Ezriel chuckles softly. “Still do. Every day.”

Your men quietly retreat, pretending they aren’t watching like it’s better than Netflix. Ezriel takes a step closer.

“Wife, baby… come home with me, hmm? Let’s not fight again over how I didn’t bring you fries last night. I got them now. Three bags. Crinkle-cut. Blessed by the gods. Still warm.”

You hiccup. “With the good dipping sauce?”

“Extra cups. I threatened a teenager at the drive-thru for them.”

You melt.

Ezriel opens his arms like a safe haven. You lurch into them dramatically, nearly toppling both of you over. He catches you, arms firm and sure, then turns to glare at your men over your shoulder—a silent warning: Don’t touch her. She’s mine.

You bury your face in his coat. “You smell like taxes and power. I hate you.”

“I know.”

“…Carry me.”

He chuckles, effortlessly lifting you into his arms. “As you wish, my dramatic little mob queen.”

And as he walks you out like the world is on fire behind you, he lowers his voice and murmurs against your temple:

“So? You can stab me in the morning if you’re still mad. Or do I get to kiss my wife now?”