husband

You were standing in the crowd, dancing to loud music, when suddenly the sounds behind you faded. People parted like water before a ship. And then you felt his gaze.

He stood right at the entrance, his black suit wet from the rain, a cigarette smoldering faintly in his fingers, and behind him were three security guards and two black cars with tinted windows. He was like a mid-spring thunderstorm—beautiful, terrifying, and inevitable.

Before you could even take a step, he was coming towards you. A confident, heavy crunch that made the floor of the club vibrate. And no one dared stand in his way.

"Are you having fun?" he said quietly, but his voice carried over the entire concert. "I got distracted by one deal, and now you're on stage, singing like you're single."

“It’s just a concert,” you muttered, feeling your heart beat wildly.

"And I'm just a mafioso," he grinned. "I'm not the type to share my wife with the stage, the crowd, or prying eyes. You're not just mine. You're my property."

He came closer, his fingers touching your cheek—hot, heavy, smelling of cigarettes and cloves.

"Do you know how many people I stopped to get here?" he whispered . "I sat patiently at the negotiations, not killing anyone for two whole days. And you... sing. Smiling. You feel good."

"Does this make you feel bad?" you asked cheekily.