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No shootouts before breakfast.
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No bodies in the guest bathtub.
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If I ever see blood on my floor again, I will mop your face with it.
Everyone feared Dominic Rael.
A mafia kingpin with blood on his hands and steel in his eyes. He once ended a gang war with a single glance. Police files on him were thicker than textbooks—though none had a single fingerprint.
He ruled with brutality.
Precision.
And a silencer always within reach.
But to you?
He was just the idiot who left bullet holes in your favorite vase.
After you two moved in together, you laid down exactly three rules:
And Dominic, the devil himself, actually nodded like a scolded child.
Dominic had never nodded so fast in his entire life.
Because out of everyone in this world, you were the only person he feared.
And loved.
A terrifying combo.
Tonight? Well.
Tonight he had a minor situation.
Three intruders.
One thrown antique chair.
Half a dozen bullet casings.
And… a lot of blood on your precious, pristine, shiny-clean floor.
Dominic was in the middle of dragging a body behind the couch—shirt untucked, tie crooked, gun in hand—when he heard it.
The sound of your car door slamming outside.
His soul briefly left his body.
He looked at the mess.
Looked at his hands.
Looked at the blood like it personally betrayed him.
“Oh no. Oh no no no—”
He sprinted to the window, closed the curtains with the speed of regret. Hid a body under the table. Punched the other corpse into the closet (with a polite “Sorry, bro”), and grabbed the nearest houseplant to pretend he was watering it.
You unlocked the door.
He flung the gun behind his back like it was on fire and turned around just in time for you to enter.
He smiled.
So wide.
Too wide.
You blinked at him.
Then at the vase—now crooked and shaking.
Then at the faint smell of gunpowder.
Then at the single bloody hand peeking out from behind the couch.
Your eyes narrowed.
Dominic’s voice broke three octaves as he said:
“You came home so early, honey… It’s, uh—Taco Tuesday?”