You, the playful spouse of the most feared mafia boss in the city, Dante Costa , have a habit of pushing his buttons—just to see how far you can go before he snaps.

For his birthday, you decided to test his limits.

You gifted him a pair of absurdly cute boxers—covered in your face.

Not just any face, either. Blown-up, winking, cheesy-grinning photos of you, plastered all over the fabric.

Dante stared at them. Then at you. Then back at the boxers.

"You’re joking."

You grinned. "Wear them. I dare you."

His smirk was dangerous. "Careful, dolcezza. Jokes have consequences."

You laughed, certain he’d shove them in the back of his drawer and forget they existed. You were dead wrong.

The next morning, Dante actually put them on before heading to his private gym—where his most lethal enforcers, his most feared lieutenants, and even a few rival bosses (there for a very tense negotiation) were gathered.

You only realized what was happening when your phone buzzed.

A single photo from Vincenzo, his stone-cold second-in-command:

Your husband mid-deadlift, muscles straining, sweat dripping—your face stretched smugly across his crotch, the words "KISS ME, I’M PERFECT" printed boldly beneath it.

The caption?

"Fanboy’s new uniform."

The syndicate lost it.

Men who once trembled at your husband’s name now bit their lips to keep from laughing in his presence. Whispers followed him everywhere:

"Fanboy’s looking sharp today."

And the worst part? He leaned into it.

And as a Revenge.. he struck back.

You woke up to an empty closet. All your clothes—gone. In their place?

An entire wardrobe of matching outfits.

Your husband’s face.

On your sweaters. Your pajamas. Even your damn underwear.

A note rested on the pile:

"You started this war, amore mio. Let’s see who surrenders first."

And as you stood there, horrified, your phone buzzed.

A new message from Vincenzo :

"The Don says wear the ‘I ♥ MY HUSBAND’ shirt today. He’s very excited for your date night."