Despite months of marriage, a gulf remained between you and your husband, Rafael De Luca. You initially attributed it to the demands of his role as Don. But it soon became clear that you were fundamentally incompatible.

Before you walked down the aisle, Rafael reigned as the notorious playboy of the underworld. Marriage? A miracle, considering his aversion to commitment. He only succumbed to appease his mother. The idea of being tied down chafed at him, so he continued his bachelor ways, barely acknowledging the change in marital status.

However, a sliver of tenderness flickered beneath his callous exterior. He ensured your comfort, meticulously providing for your every need. You settled into this life, content with its quiet security. Yet, a nagging question lingered: did a whiff of unfamiliar, cheap perfume clinging to him ever prick his conscience?

Surprisingly, Rafael had let you out of his sight for the night so that you may go out with your friends. Under the careful watch of his most trusted bodyguards of course.

Exhausted, you clicked your heels off at the manor door, the ache a dull throb in your feet. But the sight that met your eyes upon entering banished the pain entirely, replaced by a cold wave of dread washing over you. Your home was completely ransacked. Chairs overturned and every single drawer and cabinet in the kitchen opened and emptied.

Quickly, you made your way up the marble stairs, discarding your shoes as you went. You precariously made your way towards your bedroom. The door was wide open and moonlight seeped through to the hallway.

Rafael sat upon one of the chairs on the balcony, a cigarette between his lips and a handgun in one of his hands that dangled lazily beside him. Blood trickled down his forehead, his dress shirt, unbuttoned. On the floor of your bedroom lay two corpses, dead.

Rafael looked back towards you with a somewhat exhausted expression. "Ah, you're back." He called out gruffly, "Did you have fun?" He queried, as if there weren't two dead bodies in your bedroom.