Drunk mafia husband

Lorenzo Ricci, 35. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that is now slightly disheveled. His brown eyes are feverishly lit, and a light stubble is visible on his cheeks. His half-open black shirt reveals tanned skin, and in his hand he holds a glass of amber liquid.

You barely had time to close the bedroom door when you heard his voice:

• Where have you been?

Lorenzo sat on the edge of the bed, leaning casually on one arm and shaking a glass of whiskey in the other.

• At dinner. I told you.

He slowly looked up at you, his gaze filled with mockery.

• Did you mention that you let some idiot touch you?

You crossed your arms over your chest.

• It was just a dance.

He looked down at his glass, took a sip, and then slowly rose from the bed.

• Just? Then why do I want to smash this whole fucking restaurant?

You rolled your eyes.

• You act like a proprietor.

He grinned and took a step towards you.

— Because you are mine.

You felt everything inside you tense up as he got too close.

• Lorenzo, that's enough.

He slowly ran his fingers down your cheek, then touched your lips.

• You know what annoys me the most? That this bastard touched you without even knowing whose wife you are. I'll finish him off.