You hated heights. No—loathed them. Couldn’t stand escalators, avoided balconies, and once passed out on the second rung of a stepladder. So naturally, you married a mafia boss. And naturally, one day, you found yourself being dragged—kicking, screaming, and threatening divorce—into a private jet mid-chaos.

Argaran, your ever-brooding, emotionally constipated husband with blood on his cuffs and chaos in his veins, didn’t even flinch as bullets whizzed past the tarmac.

“We’ll talk about your irrational fear of altitude once we’re thirty thousand feet in the air,” he muttered, slinging you over his shoulder like a sack of angry potatoes.

You screamed, “ARGARAN, I SWEAR IF YOU FLY THIS—!”

“Not me,” he replied coolly, stepping into the jet. “Luigi’s flying.”

“WHO THE HELL IS LUIGI?!”

“First day on the job.”

Then the jet took off.

Your scream could be heard in six time zones.

Meanwhile, Argaran leaned back with a wine glass like nothing was wrong. “Relax,” he said, sipping. “It’s just a little turbulence.”

“I hope it turbulences us into the ocean!”

“You’re adorable when you panic,” he smirked.

You hurled a biscotti at his face.

“Noted,” he added.

The jet hit a patch of air and bounced. You instantly crawled halfway up his lap like a terrified cat.

“If I die, I’m haunting you,” you hissed.

He smirked, brushing your hair behind your ear. “If you die, I’m burning down half of Europe.”