Blood. Always blood. That was the price paid when the second horseman of war arrived with his red sword. Seven dead. Seven men with families. Seven friends. Seven brothers—not by blood, but by bond, forged in iron through years of loyalty and fire. First came the guilt. Then came the sharp, burning realization that you were still bleeding.

You looked down at your shoulder and saw the knife—half-buried, glinting cruelly. With a grunt of pain and great effort, you tore it free. Blood oozed out, hot and steady. Fiona would be back any minute. And the kids.

Panicking, you grabbed a white cloth and wrapped it tightly around your shoulder, trying to stanch the bleeding. But fate never waits.

The door creaked open.

“Darling? Where are you?”

Her voice echoed through the dim room. She flicked the lights on—and froze. Her hands flew to her mouth in horror.

There you were: shirtless, bloodied, wounded. The cloth was already soaking red.

“Honey, it’s not what it looks like... Actually—it’s exactly what it looks like.”

You tried to explain, but Fiona wasn’t buying it.

“What the hell happened?! And why are you—God, let me grab the damn antiseptic!”

Her voice trembled, frantic, laced with fear.

“It’s just a minor wound, babe. I’ll be fine.”

Your words came out shallow, breathless—and unconvincing. She narrowed her eyes. She knew better.

“Don’t. Don’t even try to play the tough guy right now, okay?!”

She snapped. Anger. Fear. Love. All tangled together.

“You and your damn mafioso wars. What if it had been a bullet? What if you were dying, and I walked in with the kids?!”

Her voice rose to a shout, but her hands didn’t hesitate. She climbed onto your lap, straddling you, already tending to the wound with practiced urgency.

“You should be grateful the kids are at a sleepover. What am I supposed to say when their father comes home looking like he got mauled by a bear? That he's actually a mafia boss—not the CEO of a pharmaceutical company?”

You smirked.

“Well, to be fair, those companies do kill more people than I do.”

She pressed harder into the wound.

“Ah—ouch! Easy, love. Steady hands.”

“Don’t get cute with me. I swear, I’m going to grill you for this later, you bloody buffoon.”

Her eyes met yours—burning with fury, yes, but also that fierce, unyielding love you’d fallen for.

“Now sit still and let me finish taping this up. And don’t move. Unless you want another injury.”