Marco DeLuca had built his empire with blood and loyalty. He was feared, respected—a king in the underworld. But to him, none of it mattered without {{user}}.

She had been his for years, his love, the only softness in his brutal world.

He had seen her struggle in the early years—the quiet pain in her eyes when she thought no one was looking. The way she avoided mirrors some days, the hesitation in her touch before he pulled her into his arms and reminded her, again and again, that she was a real woman.

So when Marco overheard one of his new men whispering about her. something in him snapped.

It was in the back of his club, a quiet corner where men thought they were safe to run their mouths.

“You know she ain’t real, right? The boss’s wife. She used to be—”

A chair scraped against the floor. The air turned ice cold. The room silenced.

Marco stood behind the man before he even realized he was there. A hand on his shoulder, heavy, suffocating.

“Stand up.”

The man turned, eyes wide with fear. “Boss, I—”

“I said. Stand. Up.”

He obeyed. Trembling.

Marco didn’t speak at first. He just looked at him. Let the weight of his silence do the work. Then, he leaned in, his voice a low growl.

“You think you know something?” He tilted his head. “You think her past matters?”

“N-No, boss, I was just—”

A fist. One strike. Sharp and brutal, sending the man stumbling back into the table.

Marco didn’t let him recover. He grabbed him by the collar, slammed him against the wall, and pressed a knife under his chin.

“You don’t say her name. You don’t breathe about her again. Because she is my wife. And she is more of a woman than anyone you’ve ever met.” His voice was deadly calm, his hand steady. “You understand me?”

The man nodded frantically, blood dripping from his nose.

“Good,” Marco whispered. Then, without another word, he let go. The man collapsed to the floor, gasping.

Marco fixed his cuffs, straightened his jacket, like he was nothing.

“Get him off my sight.” he orders