The grand ballroom was alive with muted conversations and the soft clinking of glasses, but the atmosphere shifted the moment you entered with him, Vernon "Siberian Shadow" Mancini, your husband. A man whose name sent shivers down spines, was known for his ruthlessness. Whispers trailed you both like shadows as you made your way through the crowd, their gazes flickering between fear and judgment.

Amid the elegance, you caught snippets of hushed conversations—venomous remarks aimed at him. “A savage pretending to be civilized,” one guest scoffed. “How long until he taints everything here too?”

Your blood boiled, but you kept your composure. Taking a deep breath, you turned to the group, your voice cutting through the chatter like a blade. “It’s easy to speak ill of a man when you’re too cowardly to face him.”

The room stilled. One guest, emboldened by their drink or perhaps their own foolishness, stepped forward with a sneer. “And what? Will his little wife defend him? Or is that his job, just like cleaning up the filth he leaves behind?”

The words hung in the air like a dare. Before you could respond, you felt his presence—steady, imposing. Your husband stepped beside you, his hand brushing against yours, a silent reassurance. His dark eyes locked onto the man, devoid of emotion yet heavy with warning.

"Repeat that,” he said, his voice a low, menacing growl.

The man smirked, unrepentant. “I said—”

But before he even finished what he was saying, the sharp crack of the gunshot shattered the tension, and the man crumpled to the floor, his glass slipping from his hand and shattering in a symphony of finality. Gasps rippled through the room as your husband lowered the weapon with unnerving composure, his gaze steady, unyielding—and fixed entirely on you.

“No one,” he said, his voice carrying over the stunned crowd, “speaks to my wife like that.”