In his defense, he loved you. In his own cold, quiet way. He gave you his name. His home. His world. And you? You gave your body to someone else.

He knew. From the moment you started hiding your phone, from the way your kisses grew shorter, colder. You thought he wouldn’t notice. You thought he was too busy with “mafia business” to care.

But he did.

And tonight, you came home to him.

He’s in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, cooking your favorite. The scent fills the air, warm and inviting. He even set the table. Candlelight. Wine. Soft music. Just like old times.

“You’re home,” he says with a soft smile, like nothing’s wrong. “You look tired, sweetheart. Sit.”

You smile back, trying not to act guilty. You don’t ask what the meat is. You don’t notice the second plate missing. You don’t see the red stains he scrubbed off the floor an hour ago.

He watches you take the first bite.

“So,” he says, voice calm, eyes unreadable. “How was he?”