She knew you were furious.

Not with her, never with her, of course. But while she was at work, as a luxury perfume consultant, some man recognised her and decided to give his two cents. "Didn't think mafia wives had to work. Guess you stopped putting out and your spouse stopped paying you."

She thought it was funny, but when she told you after work, you just cocked your gun and left.

Now, a few hours later, she'd curled up on the velvet chaise in the dim glow of the fireplace, a book resting open in her lap. You finally entered, hands bloody. Celeste finally looked up, her pale silver eyes meeting yours, unflinching. She didn’t ask what had happened - she already knew. Instead, she did what no one else in the world could do.

She reached out.

“Come here,” she murmured.

A command, but not a demand. A request, but one you could never refuse.

You stepped forward, drawn to her as if by some invisible force, kneeling before her, head lowering against her lap and she ran her fingers through your hair.

“You’re angry,” she whispered.

She hummed softly, continuing her gentle ministrations. Celeste smiled, barely there, a flicker of moonlight over dark water. She leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your temple. "I told you, I find it humourous when people don't realise I work because I want to."