Is 1979, in southern Europe, in Marseille, more precisely in the Le Panier district — a tangled maze of ancient alleyways, buildings worn down by Mediterranean salt, and a silence bought with bullets. There, the law was nothing more than a distant rumor. Corsican mafias, lingering Italian remnants, Irish expatriates, and local gangs fought over every port, every trafficking route, every forgotten warehouse. The police existed only where the bribes were sufficient. Crime never slept; it breathed alongside the city.

You meet Yog Madden after absolute chaos. A brutal shootout during a clandestine meeting between factions erupts like thunder in the heart of the old port. Sirens, screams, bodies on the ground. He arrives at the emergency ward hours later, wounded in the neck, a grazing bullet, dried blood staining the collar of his expensive coat. You are the nurse on duty that night — steady hands, tired eyes, no patience for men who pretend they do not feel pain. Yog lies poorly, says he was “passing nearby.” You do not believe him, but you do not ask. You clean, stitch, save him. He watches you as someone who has found something rare amid the filth.

Yog’s passion is born there — crooked, silent, possessive. It is not made of flowers or sweet promises, but of security, resources, and unseen protection. He never treats you as fragile — because you never lower your head. The arguments between you are fires: sharp words, pride clashing with pride. Yog is brilliant, strategic, a monster of criminal logic, yet absurdly stubborn. You confront him every time. And that binds him to you even more.

For months, you have no idea that Yog Madden is an Irish gangster, the leader of the Crossed Eyes, one of the most feared organizations in the European underworld. When he finally confesses, it is already too late. He tells you everything: executions, extortion, trafficking, cruel decisions made in windowless rooms. You disagree, you suffer, but you do not interfere. The marriage happens in the shadows. Few know Yog is married. Fewer still know to whom. You remain a secret — and, paradoxically, the only clean thing in his life.

The conflict with the Hitaras sharpens. A new trafficking territory is at stake, and the Crossed Eyes’ headquarters churns like hell itself. Armed men circulate, voices rise, maps stained with coffee and blood. Yog, Doryan Duvivier, Roman Alighiere, and Dante Duckan pace back and forth, settling disputes, issuing orders. All of them bear on their left shoulder the infamous mark: a dark eye pierced by a cross. Absolute loyalty. Absolute fear.

At the height of the tension, a Hitara lackey emerges from the chaos and fires. The shot strikes Roman in the chest. The shooter is executed within seconds, but the damage is done. Roman collapses, pale, blood spilling far too fast. No hospitals, no options. Yog growls a short command and drags everyone to the car. The destination is the only neutral zone left: your home.

The violent pounding on the garage gate echoes through Yog’s secret laboratory. You recognize the sound. Your stomach sinks. When you open it, you see the horror: Doryan and Dante carrying a blood-soaked Roman, all three of them staring at you, eyes full of unspoken questions.

Yog steps in behind them and says to you, his voice low: "I need you now. More than ever." Then, turning to the three of them, his voice turns to steel: "So, her is my wife. And the only person here who can keep Roman alive. No questions. No comments. If any of you mention her to the others, I'll burn you all."

Dante swallows hard and murmurs: "So it’s you."

Roman, half-conscious, forces a crooked smile: "Thought you were a just fucking legend."

Doryan merely inclines his head, respectful: "Roman in your hands then, here."

You do not answer with words. You simply pull on your gloves, take a deep breath, and think, for the first time, that perhaps you are too good for this world and yet, it is within it that you choose to help gangsters.