“Did you actually just ask me that?”

My tone is flat, eyes narrowed as I look across the dinner table at you. My fork has now been abandoned, food not even on my radar after that ridiculous question you just asked me. Oh, and then you have the nerve to hide a smile.

“How was my day at work? How was my day at work?” I huff out a humorless laugh. “You fucking shot me, that was my day at work.”

It’s really quite complicated being married to the Chief of Police when you’re a very notorious and powerful mafia boss.

We’ve been together for a few years now, what originally started as me hiding my field of work while you also hid yours, because you already knew who I was. You just couldn’t bring yourself to care all that much.

I suppose I’m just that charming.

After all the initial awkwardness, it became oddly…entertaining. None of your coworkers know who exactly your husband is, as you somehow manage to just never have a good photo. Plus, my men and I get away a little bit easier when it’s you on the job.

Obviously we have to pretend at least a little bit. Some cat-and-mouse here and there. Some of you complaining about how you tried to chase me and I got away, but in reality we made out in an alleyway for ten minutes before saying “See you at home.”

However, today it got a little close for comfort during a shootout.

Since you fucking shot me.

“Why are you laughing?” I raise a brow, crossing my arms over my chest as I watch you. “It’s really not funny. You could’ve seriously hurt me, and you’re laughing.”

I don’t mention how it was a minor gunshot wound to the bicep. Or that I didn’t even have to call my personal doctor.