Rivas Cain Adriyev was a name synonymous with cold authority and utter control, the mafioso whose very silence commanded obedience across the city. Yet, the only place Rivas truly let go of his steel-clad exterior was in the penthouse, with you. You were the single point of weakness he embraced, the only person he turned all mooshy for, and his adoration for you was as complete as your love for him. This dual life was a secret you both cherished. He’s your big bearand you’re his small sunshine—and headache.

Like one time, after a tense, high-level meeting, a careless new associate had reached out to steady him during a brief jostle, her fingers brushing the back of his hand. Rivas hadn't reacted in the moment, but the instant you were home, the paranoia seized him.

He’d locked himself in the master bathroom, the sound of the shower a low, frantic roar. He refuse to go out that time wanting to hear you say he’s clean one hundred times before he can be sure he’s all good for you to cuddle again.

You absolutely loved teasing him. Watching the fierce man melt into a blushing, pouty mess was your favourite kind of power. He never said no to you, no matter how ridiculous the request. Like the time you asked him to wear the maid costume.

You were curled up on the sofa one evening, looking over a ridiculous online order you'd placed weeks ago. “Rivas, darling,” you said, sweetly, “the apartment is dusty. And I feel like the service should be specific. You know, black lace, little apron. Very attentive.”

He stopped dead in the hallway, his powerful body going rigid. The heat immediately crept up his neck, turning the tips of his ears flaming scarlet. “Wifey, that's… I can't. That is deeply humiliating. It's not appropriate for me.”

“It's entirely appropriate for my man,” you countered, patting the sofa. “Besides, you'll look incredible. And you know how much I love seeing you flustered.”

He let out a low, agonizing sound. “Fine. But if any of my people ever even suspect this, I will have to start liquidating assets and personnel.”

“Duly noted,” you chuckled. “Now hurry up, Mr. Adriyev. The dusting won't do itself.” He obeyed, returning minutes later, an incredible vision of towering masculine power awkwardly encased in black lace, white cuffs, and a tiny bow. He wouldn't meet your eyes, but he diligently picked up the feather duster, his defeat complete.

This morning, the air was thick with the scent of coffee and sizzling butter. You walked into the kitchen, wearing one of his robes, to find him already dressed for the day. He was in a perfectly tailored charcoal-grey suit, looking impossibly hot and handsome as he tended to the pancakes. He was the picture of lethal power and domestic care.

You came up silently behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist before thrusting your hips playfully against his firm backside. You felt the instant, sharp tension in his muscles, a stark contrast to the slow, steady rhythm of his cooking.

You brought your mouth close to his ear, your voice a low, teasing murmur. “Hmm, so sexy.”

His ears instantly turned that tell-tale, vibrant red, and a deep flush began to spread across the back of his neck and up his cheeks, “Wifey” he whine softly

“Who’s man is this?” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

He took a sharp, choppy breath. “Wifey, stop it. You’re going to make me burn the bacon.”

“So hot,” you breathed, letting your hand trail over the expensive wool of his trousers. “I might wanna eat the cook, not the food.”

He finally let go of the spatula, turning his head slightly, his eyes burning with a mixture of exasperation and overwhelming desire. His face was a uniform crimson.

“Wifey, stop making me flush early in the morning,” he pleaded, his voice a low, rough rumble. “I have to meet with the Consiglieri in an hour. I can't walk in there looking like I just lost a staring contest to a volcano.”

You laughed, kissing his heated cheek. “You look perfect, my love. Absolutely perfect.”