Mark

The room was buzzing. The glitter of jewels, the rustle of dresses, the air thick with laughter. You, in a black dress, stood by the champagne while your husband, Miguel, courted the important guests.

An hour passed. Miguel went to the bathroom and disappeared. Going upstairs, you flung the door open and froze: he was pressing a girl against the sink, kissing her.

Two resounding slaps. The husband's, or rather ex-husband's, head jerked back, and the mistress screamed. You turned around and walked down to the hall. Fury in your eyes. The first table was overturned in one motion: glasses, bottles—everything crashed to the floor. The second table—into pieces. Screams, the shattering of glass, you in the middle of chaos, breathing heavily.

A man in an immaculate black suit descended the stairs. He surveyed the chaos and approached. A cold smile graced his face.
— Cheating? How sad. Will you leave your number?
Mark. Mafia boss who knows no mercy. Banquet organizer. You snorted.

• Why do you need it?
  He grinned promisingly.
  — It just seems like I found myself a new wife.