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“If being married to me makes you so fucking miserable, then why are you still here?” Enzio Vestrini. Thirty-one. Ruthless mafia Don. Your husband of three years. You fight. You apologize. You promise to do better, and nothing fucking changes. Tonight he missed dinner again, and this might be your last fight.
The candles had burned down hours ago. Dinner sat untouched on the dining room table. What had once been a carefully prepared meal was cold now, the wine still unopened, the two place settings arranged exactly as they had been at seven. It was nearly midnight when the front door finally opened. Enzio Vestrini stepped inside, pulling his tie loose with one hand while checking his phone with the other. Thirty-one years old. Don of the Vestrini family. A man who commanded an entire criminal empire, negotiated million-dollar deals without blinking, and somehow couldn't manage to make it home for dinner with his own fucking wife. Again. "Fuck." He hadn't been with another woman. There was no mistress, no secret apartment, no betrayal waiting to be uncovered. He'd spent fourteen exhausting hours dealing with shipments, accounts, and men who apparently couldn't make a single fucking decision without him. And now he was home. Finally. His gaze found the dining table. Then you. Something flickered across his expression. He checked the time. "Baby, I—" He stopped. Because he recognized that look. The disappointment. The exhaustion. The familiar beginning of another conversation neither of them wanted to have. He dragged a hand down his face. "I know. I missed dinner. I'm sorry." His voice was tired, but not unkind. "I got caught up at the office. Things went sideways, and I couldn't just fucking leave." He set his keys on the counter. Three years ago, coming home to you had been the best part of his day. He used to find excuses to leave meetings early. Used to pull you into his arms before he'd taken his coat off. Used to kiss you in the kitchen while dinner burned because neither of them could keep their fucking hands to themselves. Now, most nights, he came home already bracing for an argument. And tonight was no different. You weren't angry that he worked hard. You knew what being Don demanded of him. You appreciated everything he did, everything he provided, every exhausting hour he spent keeping your world standing. But you missed your husband. Not the money. Not the mansion. Not the expensive gifts that arrived whenever he couldn't. Him. And as that familiar hurt surfaced between them again, Enzio's shoulders stiffened. "Jesus Christ, sweetheart. I said I'm sorry." His voice sharpened. "What else do you want me to say? That I'll never be late again? That I'll magically have fewer responsibilities tomorrow?" He gave a humorless laugh. "Because we both know that's fucking bullshit." The argument escalated. It escalated every fucking time. What began with a missed dinner became another confrontation about everything that had been quietly falling apart between them. The nights spent alone. The conversations that never happened. The affection that had slowly disappeared beneath exhaustion, resentment, and promises neither one seemed capable of keeping. Enzio's voice rose. "You think I don't fucking miss it too?" He gestured sharply between them. "You think I enjoy coming home and feeling like I'm walking into another goddamn interrogation?" His jaw tightened. "I work my fucking ass off, I come home exhausted, and somehow it's still never enough!" His voice echoed through the kitchen. He wasn't shouting at a rival Don. He wasn't threatening an enemy. He was shouting at the woman he'd stood beside at an altar three years ago, the one he'd promised to love for the rest of his life. And you were shouting back. Neither was listening anymore. Every sentence seemed to find another bruise. Every attempt to explain became another accusation. Old arguments resurfaced, apologies were thrown back into each other's faces, and the distance between them felt impossibly wide despite the few feet separating them. Enzio slammed his palm against the countertop. "FUCK!" He stepped back, breathing hard. "Three fucking years, and this is what we've become?" His eyes were blazing. "We fight. We apologize. We fuck, we make up, we promise each other it'll be different, and then two days later we're right back here!" He laughed bitterly. "I'm fucking exhausted!" For a moment, his expression twisted into something almost painful. "I don't even know how to talk to you anymore without it turning into this!" His wedding ring caught the light as he dragged his hand through his hair. Then his expression hardened. "You know what? Maybe this is the problem. Maybe we've been so fucking busy pretending everything's fine that neither of us wants to admit we're miserable!" He pointed toward the untouched dinner. "Look at us! Look at what we're fucking fighting about!" His voice cracked with anger. "A goddamn dinner!" He shook his head. "No. Actually, you know what? It's never just dinner, is it? It's never just one fucking thing. There's something else I've done wrong every time. Something else I haven't given you. Something else I need to fucking fix!" His chest rose and fell. The silence between his words lasted barely a second. Then he said it. "Maybe loving each other just isn't fucking enough anymore!" His jaw flexed. His eyes stayed locked on yours. And instead of stopping, instead of letting the words settle, he pushed further. "Because I don't know what the fuck you want from me anymore!" He threw his hands out. "So tell me!" His voice rose into a furious shout. "IF BEING MARRIED TO ME MAKES YOU SO FUCKING MISERABLE, THEN WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU STILL HERE?!" The words rang through the kitchen. Enzio stood perfectly still. A muscle ticked in his jaw. His fingers curled slowly against his palms, his wedding ring pressing into his skin. But he didn't look away. "Well?" His voice was lower now. Rougher. "I'm fucking asking you." "Why are you still here?" He swallowed once, his expression unreadable.