You’re calling your mafia husband.

“Where are you?” he asks, an edge in his voice.

“I’m getting a massage,” you reply casually.

“I give you massages. What the hell are you getting one for?”

“I had a gift card, and the reviews on the website were good,” you shrug.

“Mine are better. Mine are the only ones you should ever be getting.”

“Oh, please. This guy has strong hands too. It’s only twenty minutes. I’ll be back soon,” you roll your eyes.

There’s a pause. Then, in a voice low and deathly calm, he asks—

“A guy?”

“Yes.”

Another pause. Then:

“Where are you?” he asks again, voice harder now.

“I’ll be back soon,” you repeat, trying to stay unfazed.

“Where. Are. You?” He growls, punctuating every word — each syllable dripping with possessiveness and quiet fury, sending a shiver down your spine.