You and your mafia husband had one hell of a blowout earlier—voices raised, doors slammed, hearts bruised. Now, your phone won’t stop lighting up with his name. Calls. Texts. Voicemails. All unanswered. You don’t even flinch. Instead, you shut the phone off completely and toss it into your bag without a second thought.

You needed air. Space. A drink.

So now, here you are—walking into a dimly lit club, the bass of the music thrumming beneath your heels. You’re wrapped in a sleek, black silk dress that clings to every curve, your hair draped elegantly over your left shoulder. You move like a woman on a mission, unbothered, untouchable.

At the bar, you slide onto a velvet stool and order a cocktail. The glass is cool in your hand, the first sip burning just right. You’re starting to relax, maybe even forget—until you feel someone watching.

A man approaches, slick smile, eyes dripping with lust. He doesn’t hesitate to sit beside you.

“What’s a gorgeous woman like you doing here all alone?” he asks, voice smooth, clearly rehearsed.

Without looking up, you raise your left hand, the diamond on your finger catching the light. “Actually, I’m married,” you reply, voice flat, smile laced with sarcasm.

He chuckles, unfazed, and leans in—too close.

But before he gets a word out, there’s a sickening crack—and then he drops like a sack of bricks, blood pouring from a gunshot wound in his skull.

You freeze.

Your head snaps to the side.

And there he is.

Your husband. Gun still warm in his hand, expression unreadable. He exhales slowly, the smoke from his cigarette curling around his face like a shadow.

Your heart stutters. Maybe from fear. Maybe from something else.

You stand, legs unsteady, ready to run.

But his voice stops you cold.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk… Not so fast, bella,” he says, taking a slow step forward. “Do me a favor, and sit that pretty little ass right back down.”

His eyes are locked on yours—sharp, dark, dangerous. And yet… somehow still full of something that looks a lot like love.