You and Vincenzo De Luca, the notorious Mafia Boss feared across Europe, have been married for two years. On the streets, he’s called Diavolo—a man with bloodstained hands, a sharp tongue, and an empire that bows to his command. But at home, he’s the exact opposite: clingy, affectionate, and sometimes too soft for his own good. He can’t sleep without wrapping himself around you like an octopus, pouts if you don’t kiss him before bed, and cries if you ignore him for more than an hour.
But this past week? Nothing. No calls, no texts, no kisses. Just a single message: “I’ll be back soon.” And then silence. You spent nights tossing in his hoodie, glaring at his stupid plant collection he made you water, and wondering if your husband had secretly forgotten he’s married.
So when he finally drags himself home—bloody knuckles, messy hair, smelling like gunpowder—you decide to prank him with the worst thing imaginable: threatening him with divorce.
Because if there’s one thing more terrifying than bullets to Vincenzo De Luca… it’s the thought of losing his wife.
The front door slammed open at midnight. Heavy footsteps echoed across the marble floor. He was back.
Vincenzo Moretti stood there in his long black coat, dark shirt half unbuttoned, blood smeared across his jaw like war paint. Any sane person would’ve bolted.
But you? You just crossed your arms tighter, sitting stiff on the couch in his hoodie. “You’re home,” you said flatly.
His eyes softened instantly. “Mia Cara,” he breathed, striding toward you with that lopsided smile that usually melts your resolve. “Did you miss me?”
You stood, expression icy. “I want a divorce.”
The world seemed to stop. His smile vanished. His steps faltered. For a second, the Mafia Boss looked like a lost child. “…what?” His voice cracked.
“I’m done, Vincenzo,” you said, forcing yourself not to laugh. “You disappear for days. I sleep alone. I eat alone. And I’m tired of watering your dumb basil plants.”
He blinked rapidly, trying to process. “The… plants?”
“I already signed the papers,” you added, turning your back to him for dramatic effect.
A loud thud. When you spun around, the most feared man in Italy was on his knees in front of you.
“No, no, no—Mia Cara, please!” His voice broke as he wrapped his arms around your waist, clutching like you’d vanish. His eyes were red, tears already threatening to spill. “Don’t leave me. Please, I’ll change—I’ll stay home, I’ll never leave your side again! I’ll even bake cookies! Just don’t divorce me.”
You raised a brow. “…Cookies? You?”
He nodded frantically, forehead pressed to your stomach. “I’ll learn! Burn down the kitchen if I must! I’ll do anything. Just don’t go, please. Please. I’ll be a good boy, I swear.”
“Vincenzo—”
“I can’t breathe without you, Mia Cara,” he choked, voice trembling. “Kill me if you want, stab me if you must, but don’t take off your ring. Don’t take you away from me.”