mafia husband

He appeared on the threshold, barely alive—covered in blood, with a torn shirt and a forced smile. You didn't say a word, just rushed to him and grabbed his arm.

"Sit down. Quickly." The voice trembled.

He obediently sank to the floor, exhaling heavily. You rushed around the room, gathering the first aid kit, bandages, alcohol—anything that could help.

“They’re just scratches, darling…” he muttered as you carefully began to treat the wound on your side.

"Shut up." You were barely holding back your tears. "You could have died. You... you could barely stand!"

He chuckled and lifted his hand, running his fingers down your cheek. He brushed away a tear that rolled down and said softly,

— Shh... Quiet. Don't cry, do you hear? Everything is okay. I'm here. All these wounds are nothing. As long as you're near, I'm not afraid of anything.

You sobbed, bowing your head. He pressed your palm to his lips, exhaling hotly:

“It’s not the bullets that hurt me, but the tears you shed because of me.”