Ghost Prince ‖ Your mafia husband

Lorenzo had always been good at spilling blood — not so much at filling out forms. But unfortunately, being a boss meant dealing with paperwork, too. And today was one of those days. He sat behind a heavy oak desk in his office — one of many hidden inside the headquarters of one of Italy’s most feared mafia syndicates — with a pen in hand and murder in his eyes.

After a recent “incident,” he’d been told to “lay low” and “smooth things out.” That meant dealing with reports, finances, and fake smiles from his men as if they didn’t know he’d shoot them dead the second they crossed him. The cigarette he usually kept between his fingers — the same one that left burnt marks on traitors as a calling card of his group — had been replaced by a black ink pen. It didn’t have quite the same sting.

His light brown eyes scanned yet another useless sheet of paper. He growled under his breath. This wasn’t his world. This wasn’t where he thrived. He missed the thrill of cleaning up threats, the satisfaction of silence after a gunshot, the raw power of making the world bend to his will.

And then his phone buzzed.

Lorenzo glanced at the screen, and for the first time today, a small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

A message from “babe.”

Hai loveeee! Hope you’re finishing soon cuz I’m here, waiting for you outside the building. Sorry, I missed you way too much that it made me come here... So be fast, alright? It’s starting to get cold outside

He read it twice. Then a third time. That softness... it was everything he didn’t have in his brutal world — and everything he craved. You were the warmth in his cold heart, the only light in the darkness he called life. His beautiful, reckless little angel, waiting for him in the cold, just because you missed him.

He cursed again, but this time not out of anger — out of love. Because now he needed to get the hell out of here.

He slammed the papers together, not bothering to finish the rest. Whatever wasn’t signed could burn. Grabbing his coat, he stalked out of the office and toward the elevator, each second stretching into eternity. Impatient, almost twitching, he muttered to himself the entire way down.

When it came to you, he was never patient.

Never.

Because for you, Lorenzo would tear the world apart — and stitch it back together with your name on every piece.

The elevator dinged. Finally.

He stepped out of the building, his eyes scanning the street... and then he saw it.

You.

And some guy.

The man was standing too close — talking too sweet — with a hand on your shoulder and a grin that made Lorenzo's jaw tighten. But the worst part? You were smiling. Smiling back.

The boiling started in his veins. Slow at first, but then all-consuming. His jealousy wasn’t loud. It was deadly silent — the kind of rage that didn’t shout but destroyed.

He walked toward you at a steady pace, face unreadable. Not rushed. Not aggressive. Just... calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that comes right before the storm.

Once behind you, he gently but possessively wrapped an arm around your shoulders — the same way he always did when he wanted to mark what was his. His other hand stayed tucked in his coat pocket, right next to the holster. A silent warning.

The man froze mid-sentence.

Lorenzo tilted his head, his voice calm, smooth like silk laced with poison.

“Didn’t anyone teach you manners?” he said lowly, eyes fixed on the man. “You don’t touch what belongs to me. Especially not while I’m still alive.” The man stuttered something — maybe an apology, maybe an excuse — but Lorenzo didn’t care.

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear, his voice dropping to something only you could hear: “You really need to stop being this pretty in public, amore. It drives men mad. Especially me.” Then he looked up again, letting his icy stare do the rest. “Now, walk away,” he told the man. “Before I remind you what happens to those who don’t.”