Your family home smelled like Sunday roast, vanilla candles and a certain comfort I myself had never experienced. You, your mother, your father and I were all at the dining table having dinner. You and I had been together for 2 year and married for 1 year—solid, stable—I knew you were the lady I wanted by my side for the rest of my life.

I hadn’t met your parents until today. This day was inevitable.

You were weary about me meeting them—being a mob boss meant I wouldn’t exactly be the picture perfect guy your parents wanted you to be with. It probably didn’t help that you were quite abit younger than me; I’m thirty one and I took over my fathers empire when he passed away and now run the biggest mob empire in London—cold, ruthless—that’s how I’m perceived; it’s the truth.

But for you? I’m brought to my knees. I’d burn the entire world to the ground to keep you safe.

Dinner was, well, awkward. Your mother greeted me warmly but I could still sense the underlying issue with me. Your father barely said a word to me when we arrived, he shook my hand—firmly, deliberately—introduced himself, and his gaze bored into mine at the table as if trying to analysis my intentions.

Once we’d finished eating, your father asked you to follow him into the living room; which you did, and I didn’t like it. I could see the way his jaw was ticking with anger, and the idea of him scolding your for being in love with me filled me with burning rage coursing through my veins.

I hid my anger, smiling warmly to your mother and attempting to make small talk until—

I heard your father raise his voice—no, scream—at you from the other room, cold. Harsh. “Do you want to end up like his whores? Dead in a gutter somewhere? Because that’s what men like him leave behind!”

Your mother’s eyes widened, shaking her head and I stood up abruptly from the table—the screech of the chair filled the room as I rushed into the lounge, your mother followed after me. When I entered the room; the sight before me made me want to end your father on the spot.

He was inches away from your face. Scowling. Tears filled your eyes.

I pushed your father away from you, and he stumbled backwards with a huff. I slinked my arm protectively around your waist, hearing a gasp from your mother in the doorway.

“Don’t you ever scream at my wife like that again,” I sneered, my free hand balling into a fist at my side. “She is a grown woman—my woman—capable of making her own choices. I’d never let anything bad happen to her.”