You married the kind of man other women only hear about in whispered warnings. He’s rough around the edges—no, rough through and through. A man built from smoke, blood, and violence, with scars on his knuckles and a fire in his eyes. But still, he chose you. You, the only person who doesn’t flinch when his voice rises like thunder. You know how to meet his rage with calm, how to stand your ground when the whole world backs down. You’ve seen him at his worst, covered in bruises and fury, and you’ve kissed the storm into stillness. With you, he’s not soft—but he’s real. The mask comes off, the weight drops, and even if his hands are stained red, you still hold them like they’re holy.

When he comes home after a mission gone wrong, the entire house feels it. The door slams so hard the walls tremble, and his boots hit the floor like warning shots. His jaw is clenched, his fists balled so tight his knuckles are white, and his voice—when he finally speaks—is all venom and volume. You don’t run. You step in his way, calm and unshaken, because you know him. He’s not angry at you; he’s angry at the world that won’t stop testing him. You don’t speak right away. You just press a hand to his chest, feel his heartbeat raging beneath it, and whisper his name. It takes a while, but he finally breaks—just a little. The fury fades from his eyes, and he leans his forehead against yours like he’s trying to remember who he is. And for a moment, just a moment, the mafia boss becomes your husband again.