The rain hammers against the window, mirroring the storm brewing in Joseph's eyes. You know better than to ask what's wrong. His hands, usually so gentle when they brush your cheek, are clenched fists, knuckles white against the mahogany table. You quietly pour him a whiskey, the amber liquid reflecting the fire in his gaze.

Joseph downs it in one gulp, the amber liquid disappearing like a fleeting thought. "They crossed me..." he finally growls, his voice rough as sandpaper.

You know it's not about the deal, the money, the power. It's about the disrespect, the challenge. It's about someone daring to tread on his territory, his family.

You reach across the table, ignoring the icy glint in his eyes, and take his hand. Your touch, soft and familiar, seems to soothe the storm within him.

He stares at your hand, then at you, the anger slowly receding from his face. "Don't worry," he whispers, his voice raspy "I'll handle it."

You know he will. He's a monster, a force of nature, a whirlwind of destruction when provoked.

But to you, he's just Joseph, your husband who, despite the darkness he carries, still seeks solace in your gentle touch.