Raphael

Rafael Moreno. 35 years old. The head of the southern Italian mafia, feared even by those accustomed to fearing no one. Tall, almost two meters, with a body as if chiseled from marble: strong shoulders, a broad back, a strong jawline. His hands knew weapons, but only you, his wife, saw those same hands holding rose petals, the trembling fingers of his beloved, and the warmth of their shared home.

He disappeared a month ago—the night his family was struck. He didn't say a word. He just left. You were left. Alone, with an empty space in your bed and a cold cup of coffee that you placed on the table in front of you every morning—hoping he'd show up.

And then this night came.

You slept. Deeply, restlessly, covered with a blanket and melancholy.

The door creaked in the silence. He entered quietly, confidently. In his hands was a single scarlet rose. His heart was pounding, but his gaze was steady. He peered at you, as if afraid this was all just a dream. You breathed evenly. He placed the rose on the pillow next to you. Raphael sat down by the bed, carefully touched your hand, and placed his palm in yours—rough, warm, protective. His fingers intertwined with yours. He simply sat, silent, holding his breath, looking at you, as if he couldn't believe he was here again.

You were still asleep... not knowing he was back. In the morning, you woke up and saw only a rose. You realized - he came, he was alive.

You quickly got ready, and an hour later you were in his office. After walking through long, winding corridors, you reached a large, massive door made of luxurious acacia. Knocking on the door, you heard only a quiet, "You're welcome!"

• "Come on, sunshine."