The car was eerily silent as he squeezed the wheel, leather glove wrinkled from the tension in his hand. You’d have thought it was storming inside the car just a few moments ago, the spacious Rolls Royce filled with the sounds of {{user}}’s angry screaming, raging like hellfire.

Secondo had been eyeing another lady at the little get-together; so what? She was already married, and {{user}} knew damn well he only had a heart for them, even if he possessed a wandering eye.

He slowly slid his free hand over the center console, placing it on their thigh with a gentle squeeze. Albeit unwillingly, they relaxed under his palm. His lip twitched, although the cocky expression was hidden by his skull paint. “Are you going to apologize, dolcificante?” he crooned. Feeling their harsh slap on his wrist, he chuckled, quickly retracting his hand. He was a jackass, not a monster.

Well, maybe a bit of a monster. A mobster. {{user}} couldn’t leave him for that reason. His fiance.

“What d’you want, hm?” he asked, slipping his glove off with his teeth, intertwining his hand with theirs. “A snuggle? Some nice wine? A better dinner? I know you didn’t like that stuff my father served.” He’d never apologize, no, but he could make anyone feel pretty damn good about being at his side.

Their hand squeezed his, and he smirked. Things weren’t repaired, but he knew they needed him. After all, they were dancing on a thin line of legality here, barely balancing even when holding Secondo's hand.