Matvey

He is Mafia. You are his wife.
But you are also mafia, but Matvey doesn’t know.
For him, you're simply the perfect wife. You always know what to serve for dinner, smile at his partners, and straighten his collar before important deals.
But he's starting to notice.
Last week, Konstantin, an old friend, approached him. He approached you.

• Oh, what a wife you have, Matvey!
  You smiled that same smile. Too calm. Your eyes held none of the nervousness women usually feel when approached by men with such cold gazes. You simply nodded and walked away.
  This morning you were gone again. Your coffee was cold. The phone was silent, but he saw you go out onto the balcony when your phone rang. Your voice turned to ice. You spoke briefly, harshly, businesslike. And after the conversation, you simply threw on your coat and left. You didn't say where.
  He doesn't understand. You're too calm when important people sit next to you at a restaurant. You disappear too often. Your hands smell not only of his perfume, but also of gunpowder when you return late at night.
  And today you left again after the call. But when you come home, he hugs you and smells blood.
• Darling, where were you going?