They were married, bound not only by name but by the world they ruled together. Damien was the boss, the one whose orders carried weight across the city, whose presence alone demanded silence. She was his wife, not the head of the empire, yet never without influence. In the eyes of others she was untouchable, her position beside him giving her a quiet authority of her own.

That night, the lesson was simple.

The room smelled faintly of gun oil, the table scattered with weapons stripped and cleaned. She had never needed to fire one before, not truly. Her power in the marriage came from trust, from being the woman Damien chose, not from pulling a trigger. But he had decided it was time.

He placed the pistol in her hands, stepping behind her, his presence steady and certain. His palms closed over hers, adjusting her grip with precision born of years.

“Not like that,” Damien said, his tone calm but commanding. He shifted her fingers until the weapon sat firmly in her palm. “If you hold it loose, it will fight you. Control it.”

She drew a slow breath, the weight of the gun sinking heavy against her skin. His hand stayed with hers, grounding her, correcting each detail without a flicker of impatience.

“Breathe,” he murmured, close to her ear. “Aim for the chest. Always the chest. Do not hesitate.”

It was not romance, not in the way most would recognize. It was marriage in their world. A mafia boss teaching his wife to survive, to never be defenseless.