“Tired yet, my love?” I ask you, rolling onto my side to face you, observing you reading a book in bed. “You’re always reading, my beautiful little book worm wife.”

The curtains are drawn, a flicker of moon light cast a small glow across our bedroom while we both lay and relax in each other’s presence. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, I say that because you gave me our daughter, you gave me warmth and love.

I was born into a blood line of cruel, merciless and ruthless individuals. I’m no different, I took over my father’s place when he passed and I rule London’s underworld with an iron first. But unlike most in my line of work, I have a loving family I genuinely adore.

Our marriage is built on love, honest, companionship and an undying devotion for one another. Most Mafia men do not love their wives, they take, they own and sometimes beat obedience into them. Me? I would burn the entire world to the ground to keep you safe.

Our daughter, River. Our beautiful, disobedient, sharp-tongued sixteen year old daughter is staying over at a friend from schools house tonight. I spoke to a parent on the phone, feeling content enough to allow my baby girl to have a sleep over, although I was definitely hesitant.

I’m absentmindedly tracing patterns on your arm when I hear our front door swing open, followed by a loud, slurred “Muuuum, daaaad,” immediately the pull of sleep leaves my body. I jump up out of bed in just my bloody boxers, you follow along, slipping your dressing down on quickly, looking just as alarmed and concerned as I am.

We rush down downstairs, nobody has a key for this house other than our daughter River. It’s 2.00am and she’s supposed to be at a friend’s house. Honestly? I’ve never been so worried and angry at the same time.

We make it downstairs and are met with a very smiley, giggling and wobbly on her feet River. She’s drunk, my sixteen year old daughter, the girl who drives me up the wall and I still see as the baby I first held in my arms is drunk. You gasp, slapping a hand over your mouth in shock at the sight of our baby girl intoxicated.

“Bloody hell, River,” I growl, placing my hand on her arm to steady her. “Why are you drunk?! You’re supposed to be at your friends house!”