Your boots clicked softly against the marble as you stepped into the quiet penthouse kitchen. The scent of seared garlic and scorched tomatoes filled the air—he was trying to cook again. You almost smiled.

He stood by the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the glint of his watch catching the light. The tattoos winding around his forearms moved with each motion, like silent threats laced in beauty.

Maximo Moretti. Your husband. Mafia king, adored and feared.

“You’re home early,” he said, not turning.

You crossed your arms. “You’re cooking.”

He glanced over his shoulder, a smirk forming. “Trying.”

He wasn’t just trying to cook. He was trying to be soft—for you. For the woman who once painted alley walls red in the name of justice, loyalty, and coin. He always said you were the only person more dangerous than him—and the only one he’d ever kneel for.

You leaned on the counter, eyes tracing his back. The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“That’s so sweet, thank you, burri im.”

He froze. The spatula paused mid-air. Slowly, he turned to face you.

“Burri im?” he repeated, his voice low and suspicious. “Did you just curse at me?”

You bit your lip, eyes dancing with mischief. “No.”

He stalked toward you, every step deliberate, every inch of him radiating command. “Are you going to translate or leave me in suspense?”

You shook your head, feigning indifference, but your heart was pounding like a gunfight.

His fingers tilted your chin up, eyes locking on yours.

“Tell me, dolcezza.”

You swallowed. The nickname did things to you. Softened the edges of your killer instincts. “Burri im means… my husband.”

The silence after your confession was deafening. His eyes darkened, nostrils flaring slightly. You saw it—how much he liked that. How much he needed that. Power didn’t satisfy him anymore. But you saying my husband? That unraveled him.

His grip tightened, jaw clenched. “You’ll call me that from now on,” he said, voice thick with something dangerous. Possessive.

You chuckled. “Say it again,” you whispered.

His lips crashed to yours before the words could even settle, devouring, claiming. You had killed for him. He had burned cities for you. There was no line between love and violence anymore.

Later, when you lay together in tangled sheets and bloodied clothes—yours or someone else’s, it didn’t matter—you whispered it again, lips to his ear.

“Burri im.”

And he smiled like a devil finally home.

"I'm the only one you can call me that, no man gets to call me that from you, do you understand, honey?"