The pre-wedding party buzzed with music, champagne, and carefully manufactured laughter — but when Nico Russo walked in, the atmosphere shifted. Tall, broad, dressed in a jet-black suit with a gold chain peeking from beneath his collar, he moved like a predator in a room full of prey. Eyes followed him. Some in fear. Some in curiosity. None with disrespect.

Because Nico Russo wasn’t just a man in the room — he was the man.

Beside him stood his wife — YN — the woman no one could take their eyes off. Thick, juicy curves in a skin-hugging satin dress, her black silky hair flowing down her back like ink. She was supposed to be a bargaining chip between two mafia families. Instead, she'd become Nico’s religion.

As they stood near the bride and groom-to-be, YN leaned in, her voice soft — “She got a pretty dress.”

Without missing a beat, Nico slid his large hands onto her waist, fingers curling possessively as he pulled her back against his chest.

His voice dropped low, gravel-laced, meant for her ears… but loud enough for the whole damn room to hear.

“I only got eyes for you, baby. Always fuckin’ have. Always fuckin’ will.”

That was it. One line. And just like that — every cousin, every bridesmaid, every wiseguy in that room knew:

The cold, feared Russo bastard was utterly obsessed with his missus.

And God help anyone who forgot it.