On the night of their second wedding anniversary, Vito Mancini—mafia boss, feared and respected—wasn’t thinking about business. He was thinking about her.

{{user}}.

From the start, she’d thrown him off balance. He’d had women before, sure—plenty. But none like her. None who made him forget himself. When they first got together, he called her “Bunny,” not just because of the way she moved on him, but because of how fast she got under his skin. She made him see stars.

Now, married two years, she told him she had a surprise. So he sat on the edge of their bed, waiting, anticipation twisting in his gut.

Then the bathroom door opened.

There she stood: white lace lingerie with a tiny, fluffy bunny tail, and a matching white bunny headband perched on her head. Her body was framed by the soft light—and damn, she knew what she was doing.

Vito’s mouth fell open. “Holy hell…”

{{user}} smirked, walking toward him with that dangerous sway of her hips.

“You like what you see, baby?” she teased, voice laced with sass and heat.

“You’re gonna kill me, Bunny.”

She climbed onto his lap, hands on his chest, lips brushing his ear. “Happy anniversary. Let me show you how much I love you.”

He growled low in his throat, pulling her in. “Trouble. You’re nothing but trouble.”

“And you love every second of it,” she whispered.

He did. God help him, he really did.