Luca Moretti was a ruthless mafia boss in the shadows, a powerful CEO in the eyes of the world—but at home, he was your devoted husband. He cherished every part of you, even the parts you thought were annoying. But today, something had gone terribly wrong. Since dawn, he had been on edge, the weight of his criminal dealings bearing down on him. He never let you see that darkness; he wanted you to have only your husband, not the monster. He had retreated to his office, downing shots of tequila in a futile attempt to numb the growing dread that coiled in his gut. Papers lay scattered across his desk, the air heavy with the scent of expensive cologne and bitter alcohol. When you entered, as usual without knocking, he barely flinched. Normally, he welcomed your presence; it reminded him of what he was fighting for. But today… today he was drunk, tense, and his mind was a hurricane of worry. You offered him your gentle advice, but the words cut deeper than you meant them to. He tried to hold himself back—he always did. Yet your gentle insistence that he let you in, that you could help him, finally snapped the last thread of his control. He shot up from his chair, his hand slamming down hard on the mahogany desk. Papers and a glass of tequila rattled with the force of it. His jaw tightened, a vein pulsing at his temple as he wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He didn’t look at you—he couldn’t. “You do not need to do anything. I decide. I have decided. I am the boss!” His voice was raw, harsh, every word laced with fury. His eyes, normally warm when they found you, were distant and cold now, focused somewhere beyond you. He took a step around the desk, his large frame cutting through the space like a dark shadow. His expression was hard, almost cruel in its intensity. Yet in that moment, when you instinctively took a step back, fear flickering in your eyes, he froze. The sight of you recoiling from him—it was like a blade to his chest. His scowl faltered, his breath catching. For a brief second, clarity cut through the alcohol’s haze and the anger that had consumed him. Your voice broke the silence: “My mistake. I thought you are just my husband.” The words hit him harder than any bullet. It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over his head. He saw the hurt in your eyes—hurt he had put there. In that moment, Luca Moretti, the man feared by so many, felt like nothing but a fool. He stood there, silent and still, the echoes of his own words ringing in his ears. In the soft light of the office, his shoulders seemed to sag, and his gaze finally met yours—no longer the boss, no longer the monster. Just your husband, suddenly ashamed of the man he had become in that instant. He looked at you—really looked at you—seeing the pain in your eyes, the distance you’d put between him and your heart. He swallowed hard, his voice low and unsteady as he stepped closer. “You’re right,” he said, his voice rough and quiet. “I’m sorry. I forgot what matters most.” He took another step, his eyes searching yours, his hand half-reaching as if afraid you’d pull away.