Undoubtedly, today is the worst Monday in all Emilio De Angelis’ 32 years of life.

First, he’d gotten a call from one of his right-hand men that their warehouse had been sniffed out, though he’d already had an inkling it would happen. After all, your meddling rag-tag group of justice seekers had been steadily closing in, tightening the collar around his neck more with every day.

But Emilio had done this plenty of times before – intercepted, tossed the pawns of law off of his chessboard before they’d reached checkmate. Those pawns were irrelevant. Faceless, nameless bodies to further soak his hands in damp scarlet. Of course, just of course, this Monday had to be his ruin – the first time you’d been tossed directly into the fire, directly before his crime.

God, you looked beautiful though. His heart warring like yours, his father’s training replaying in his mind – telling him to rid of you, control you.

But it was you, his pretty little {{user}}. His spouse, his baby, his darling.

Your eyes wide, brows furrowed so slightly – lips contorted into a frown that prodded at his heart. No doubt hurt beyond belief, wounded by the confrontation of his deceit. You’d caught him tossing out the garbage, snuffing out one of your coworkers like some worthless candle. Liquid splattered across his jaw, gaze soft and doting despite the weapon in his hand – meeting your pain, the bile rising in the base of your throat, with a well-hidden paradox of emotions.

“Sweetheart … please don’t make this any harder than it already is, hm?”