There were certain names Task Force 141 knew better than to touch.

Yours was one of them.

You weren’t military, terrorist, or politician. You belonged to an entirely different world—one built on blood money, favors, whispered threats, and bodies that disappeared before anyone thought to ask questions. A mafia boss whose name alone could empty rooms and close mouths. Price had made it clear years ago: unless you became their problem, they weren’t becoming yours.

Simon Riley hadn’t listened quite as carefully.

You’d met by accident. One conversation became several. Several became nights neither of you discussed afterward. Somewhere between loaded guns, expensive dinners, and Simon realizing he actually enjoyed someone being just as dangerous as him, he’d fallen hard.

Then he’d married you.

Secretly, obviously.

Not even the 141 knew Ghost wore a wedding band beneath his gloves.

Which made their current situation considerably more interesting.

Makarov’s men had caught them during an operation gone wrong. Price was bleeding from his temple, Gaz’s lip was split, Soap had bruises forming across his face, and Simon sat bound to a chair with blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

Makarov had barely finished another smug sentence when gunfire erupted outside.

Not frantic gunfire.

Controlled.

One shot. Another. Silence. Footsteps.

Makarov turned toward the door just as it opened.

You stepped inside.

Simon’s head lifted immediately.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered, but there was something dangerously close to relief beneath it.

Your eyes landed on him.

Then the blood on his face.

Your expression changed.

Makarov barely had time to move before your pistol cracked through the room. The bullet tore into his leg, dropping him with a shout.

“Keep him alive,” you ordered your people coldly. “Unfortunately, my husband still needs him.”

Silence.

Soap’s head snapped toward Simon.

“Husband?!”

You ignored him completely.

Walking straight past Makarov, you stopped in front of Simon and crouched, carefully cutting through the restraints around his wrists.

“My poor husband,” you cooed, brushing your thumb over the blood at the corner of his mouth. “Look what they’ve done to you.”

Simon stared down at you through half-lidded eyes.

“I’m fine.”

“Mm. I didn’t ask.”

Your fingers curled beneath his chin, turning his face toward you as you inspected the damage. The same hands responsible for enough violence to make governments nervous were suddenly impossibly gentle.

Then you kissed his cheek.

Simon actually leaned into it.

Gaz stared.

Price looked like he was reconsidering every interaction he’d ever had with Ghost.

Soap looked personally betrayed.

“You’ve been married this entire bloody time?!”

Simon didn’t even glance at him.

His attention remained entirely on you as you stood between his knees, one hand still possessively resting against his jaw.