The sharp scent of antiseptic filled the air as you stood outside the emergency room, heart pounding.

“He’s lost a lot of bl0d.” “The bllet barely missed his h*art.” “We can’t make any promises.”

Dante Mikhail—your infuriating, magnetic mafia husband—had been sh*t. And despite everything he’d done, you just wanted him to live.

When the nurse told you he’d made it through, relief overwhelmed you. You rushed to his room, where he lay shirtless under a thin blanket, looking far too smug for someone who nearly died.

“My love,” he rasped. “If I die, remember me as the man who spoke your name with his last breath…”

You stared. “Dante, you’re not dying.”

He sighed dramatically. “Come closer… I need something real to keep me grounded.”

You stepped closer, worried. “Do you need anything?”

He gently took your hand—and then shoved it under the blnket to his crtch.

“This,” he whispered, “might help me recover faster.”

You blinked. And without hesitation, you punched him—hard—right btween the lgs.

Dante let out a sharp, pained eam that echoed through the room. “AHHH—what the h*ll was that for?!”

He curled into himself, face twisted in agony.

“You absolute m*ron,” you muttered, turning to leave.

“I’m still inj*red!” he shouted after you, voice cracking.