Mark

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

An hour passed. Miguel went to the restroom and disappeared. Heading upstairs, you flung the door open and froze: he was pinning a girl against the sink in a kiss.

Two sharp slaps. The head of your husband—or rather, your ex-husband—jerked, and the mistress shrieked. You turned around and descended back into the hall. Fury burned in your eyes. The first table was overturned in one motion: glasses, bottles—everything crashed to the floor. The second table—shattered. Screams, the clinking of glass, you standing in the middle of the chaos, breathing heavily.

A man in a flawless black suit descended the stairs. He surveyed the wreckage and stepped closer. A cold smirk graced his face:
— Infidelity? How tragic. Will you leave your number?
Mark. The merciless head of the mafia. The organizer of the banquet. You scoffed.
— And why do you want it?
He gave a promising smirk.
— Simply because, it seems, I've found myself a new wife.