You flinched as Leo’s voice thundered through the mansion. You had just returned from the hospital that noon, body still weak, the saline tube still attached to your hand. But Leo—your husband, the feared mafia lord—came home late and found no dinner waiting. Hunger always lit his temper, and his words sliced you sharper than a knife.

“What? You think saving me once means I’ll let your mistakes slide? Wrong. Five minutes. I want dinner on the table. And the floor? What happened to it? Did you lose your cleaning ability too? You lazy—”

You crossed your arms over your face in fear, bracing for the hit you had come to expect. But his eyes caught the tube on your wrist, and for a fleeting second, his rage faltered. Memories surged back—three days ago, when you stepped in front of him, taking bullets meant for his chest.

Tears filled your eyes as you nodded silently, trembling, reaching for the ingredients with sore, shaking hands. You were frail, thin, but you endured. You always endured. You had no parents, no family—no one but him. And despite the pain, you clung to him because he was all you had.

Leo turned away, fists clenched, but something broke in him. He spun back, rushing to your side, pulling you into his arms with desperation.

“Why do you even put up with me?” he choked, voice breaking. “I’m… the worst person ever. No need to cook any damn thing.”, he pushed the cooking materials away and threw the knife off your hand.

He loved you—but in a way twisted, broken, dangerous.