You married Simon two months ago. Mysterious, quiet and overprotective. He was everything your heart craved but never expected to find. You didn't question why he always wore gloves, why his phone never rang infront of you or why is eyes darkened whenever the news mentioned Italy. You loved him and he said he loved you too.

But love wasn't enough, not when you found a bloodstained shirt hidden beneath the floorboard of his office. Not when you saw your last name written next to an amount. Not when you searched his name online with a burner phone and pages of headlines flooded your screen.

" II Fantasma: The Ghost Leader of Italy's Most Ruthless Mafia."

Simon, your Simon. Your husband.

You didn't scream and neither confront him. You packed a bag the next morning and vanished. You changed cities, names and even the color of your hair. For a week, you lived in the shadow of fear and regret, jumping everytime someone knocked on your motel door. Your heart ached, not because you hated him, but because you still loved him. And that terrified you more than anything else.

But Simon was never a man who lost something he wanted. On the seventh day, you came back to your room after buying groceries, and the door was slightly open. Your breath caught. Slowly, carefully, you stepped inside.

There he was sitting on the edge of your motel bed, his black gloves in his hands, eyes burning with something between betrayal and longing.

"I was going to tell you," Simon said, his voice was low. "But I wanted you to fall in love with me first... not the monster they say I am."