The Mafia Boss's Wife

Simon stood frozen in the doorway, as if the very space itself had to give way to him. Tall, broad-shouldered, with long, black hair that reached his shoulders, he didn't look like a man asking questions. He looked like a man trying to find out the truth.

Mika stepped a little closer to you, his hand on his belt—his jacket was open, and the metallic glint of a pistol flashed deliberately. Ray stood back, arms crossed, but his gaze was like a scanner: your face, your pockets, your movements.

Simon: Cold, almost lazy. — What's going on here?

Bella winced and turned sharply to her husband, trying to smile as if this was all just awkward.

Bella: — Honey... this is {{user}}. My friend from school. We were friends since childhood, but then he moved away, and we got lost... and now we're back together!

Simon didn't say a word.

He simply walked slowly up to the table and stood next to you—so close you could feel his physical presence. He didn't even look at the tea. Only at you.

Simon: — School friend.

He said it as if the word were suspicion.

Mika chuckled softly, not taking his eyes off you.

Ray: Under his breath — Mrs. Arno is taking you to "old friends."

Bella turned her head sharply to Ray:

Bella: — Ray, shut up!

Simon raised his hand—a brief movement, and Ray instantly fell silent. Bella stopped short too. She clearly knew that gesture. That gesture meant: enough.

Simon leaned a little closer to you.

Simon: — Name.

Bella immediately intervened, hastily:

Bella: — Simon, I told you! It's {{user}}!

Simon didn't even blink.

Simon: — I asked him.

The silence became thick as concrete. You heard a door lock click somewhere in the distance... or maybe you imagined it.

Mika took a step—not threatening, it seemed, but now he was standing in a position where he could intercept you in a second if he wanted.

Simon: — How long have you been in New York?

Bella tried to "defuse" the situation again and laughed too loudly:

Bella: — Well... he just got here! That's normal, right? People come to New York!

Simon glanced at her. Bella immediately fell silent, as if her oxygen had been cut off.

Simon looked at you again.

Simon: — How do you know him, Bella?

Bella: quickly, nervously — School! We sat at the same desk! He defended me when the girls teased me! He... he's a good guy!

Simon: — He's a good guy.

He slowly straightened up and took a step to the side, walking around the table.

Too calm. Too confident. Like a predator in no hurry.

Simon: "You brought a man into my house."

Bella flushed.

Bella: "He's not a 'man,' he's my friend!"

Simon: "He's a man."

Pause.

Simon: "And I don't remember giving permission."

Bella swallowed. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the tablecloth.

Bella: "I... I didn't think I needed permission to see a childhood friend..."

Simon bowed his head slightly.

Simon: "You're not thinking at all."

It sounded quiet. Without anger. But Bella turned pale, as if the words had slapped her across the face.

Ray pushed off the wall and lazily walked closer to the door, blocking the exit. Mika, on the other hand, took another step closer to you.

Mika: dryly — Do you have your phone?

Bella interrupted sharply:

Bella: — Mika! What are you doing?!

Simon raised two fingers, and Mika froze, but didn't back down.

Simon: without taking his eyes off you — Get up.

Bella jumped up immediately, almost automatically, and grabbed your sleeve, as if afraid you'd be taken away.

Bella: — Simon, stop! He didn't do anything!

Simon looked at her hand on your sleeve. For a long time. Silently.

Bella abruptly pulled her hand away, as if burned.

Simon stepped closer to you. Now he was so close that you could see small details: the coldness in his gray eyes, the calmness on his face, the absence of any emotion.

Simon: — Who are you? — And why did you appear in her life again?

Bella took a deep breath, her voice shaking.

Bella: — Because it's fate! Because I missed you! Because... because I wanted at least someone of my own, you understand?!

Simon slowly turned to her.

Simon: — You have 'your own.' — It's me. And my last name.

Bella fell silent. Her eyes filled with hurt, but she didn't dare argue.

Simon looked at you again.

Simon: — For the last time. — Answer.

Micah shifted slightly, and you heard the faint sound of metal touching the leather of his holster. Ray watched silently, ready to intervene at any second.

Bella looked at you pleadingly: tell me the truth.

The warm light from the floor lamp cast a soft amber glow across the living room, casting the corners of the room in semi-darkness. An open bottle of nail polish sat on the coffee table, along with cotton pads, a nail file, and a small manicure lamp. The air smelled sweet and chemical at once—a mixture of hand cream and acetone.

Bella sat on the couch, her legs tucked under her, smiling so easily, as if nothing dangerous existed beyond the walls of this house. You carefully held her fingers, drawing a smooth line with the brush—slowly, carefully, as if it could keep the world in balance.

"Do you remember how we used to hide behind the gym at school?" Bella chuckled softly, and her laughter sounded like a small island of normality.

You snorted, still working on your nails.

"Yeah." And how you later convinced everyone it was a "strategic plan," not panic.

Bella opened her mouth to protest, but at that moment, somewhere deep in the house, the front door clicked.

The sound was short. Dry. Like a period at the end of a sentence.

Footsteps.

Heavy, measured, unhurried—but they carried a weariness that didn't come from ordinary work. A weariness saturated with other people's words, threats, and dirt.

Simon entered the living room, and with him, it was as if a different air had entered—cold, metallic. Dust had settled on his coat, as if he'd walked through a warehouse or a basement. His face was calm, tense like a thin film, beneath which something dark still simmered.

Ray and Mika appeared behind him, like shadows.

Mika walked slightly behind, his shoulders streaked with dirt, as if someone had grabbed him with their hands. He looked almost pleased, but this "pleasure" was too familiar, too wrong.

Ray silently wiped his palms with a damp towel. The towel should have been white... but now it was spotted, and the red stain on the fabric looked as if no amount of water could wash it out.

Bella looked up first.

Simon approached her without a word, leaned over, and kissed her temple—a gentle, almost homely gesture, as if he'd just returned from the office, not from "negotiations."

"Are you okay?" he asked quietly.

Bella nodded, then suddenly winced and sniffed, as if the scent had only just reached her.

"Yes..." She sniffed again, frowning. "Ugh. Darling, what's that smell on you?"

For a second, the room was too quiet.

Then Mika burst out laughing, covering his mouth with his hand. Ray chuckled too—briefly, as if he didn't mean to, but couldn't help it.

You involuntarily wrinkled your nose, continuing to paint Bella's nails—the brush trembled, but the line was still even. The habit of self-control was stronger.

Simon exhaled slowly, as if deciding whether to tell the truth or leave it at the door.

"Smoke," he finally said calmly, almost lazily. "And a little... dirty work."

He looked at Bella a little more gently than at the rest of the world.

"I'm going to shower now."

Bella waved her hand dramatically, but something alarming flickered in her eyes, quickly hidden behind a smile.

"Go. Just don't touch anything until you wash off this... 'communication odor.'"

Mika giggled again, and Ray finally tossed the towel aside, like it was unnecessary evidence.

Simon was already turning toward the hallway, but before leaving, his gaze lingered on you for a second.

Not threatening.

More like assessing.

As if he was silently checking to see if you were still "one of them" or just nearby.

And when he disappeared into the dim hallway, the only thing left in the room was the light of the floor lamp... the polish on your nails... and the faint feeling that the silence here was temporary.

Morning came slowly.

A thin, pale light filtered through the thick curtains—dim, lazy, as if the city hadn't yet decided whether to fully awaken. It fell in a stripe across the bed, on the rumpled sheets, on the scattered pillows, on someone else's hair.

The room was quiet, except for the distant hum of New York: muffled, as if through glass. Here, however, a different sound was heard—even breathing, soft, warm, alive.

Simon lay on his back, motionless.

To his left, by his shoulder, Bella slept the way only people who feel safe can. Insolent, serene, her lips slightly parted. Her cheek was pressed against his skin, and her hand—heavy, relaxed—lay on his chest, as if rightfully claiming: mine.

To your right—you.

Your closeness felt different. Quieter. More careful. Not like a habit, but a choice. You slept almost motionless, and only your warm breath touched his skin, causing everything inside to shift from its usual rhythm.

Simon didn't open his eyes right away.

At first, he simply felt it: the warmth of two bodies next to each other, the softness of his hair on his shoulders, the scent of the night—slightly sweet, slightly salty, mingled with clean linens and something personal that money couldn't buy.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd woken up like this.

No weapon under his pillow. No sudden jolt of anxiety. No familiar cold calculation that kicks in before his thoughts.

Today, everything was different.

Bella snored softly, like a child, and immediately took offense at it—she frowned in her sleep and snuggled closer. Simon chuckled faintly, but it was brief, almost imperceptible.

Then he turned his head to the right.

You were so close that he could make out the little details: your eyelashes casting a shadow, the barely noticeable crease between your brows, as if even in your sleep you were pondering something. Your palm rested against his ribcage—not demanding, not possessive, but simply... where it belonged.

And that was what struck him hardest.

Not passion. Not chance. Not something that could be justified by alcohol or impulse.

But the feeling that all three of you—strangely—had become one reality.

Simon inhaled slowly, and the air caught in his chest.

He was used to controlling everything: people, streets, money, fear. But not this.

The warm, intimate silence of a Saturday morning defied control. It simply was.

And it was dangerous.

Because in it, he didn't want to be "the boss." He didn't want to be "Arno." He didn't want to be the kind of person who decided destinies with a single glance.

He just wanted to lie there. Listen to their breathing. Feel the living nearby. His own.

Bella stirred, muttered something sleepily, and buried her nose in his neck. Her hair tickled his skin.

You shifted slightly, too, as if on the verge of waking, and Simon froze—not because he was afraid, but because he suddenly realized: if you opened your eyes now, you would see the real him.

Not the one who frightened you. Not the one who ordered you. But the one who had been alone for too long.

His fingers trembled—barely—and he stopped himself.

Too soon. Too subtle. Too… important.

Simon looked at the ceiling again, allowing himself a rare weakness—a few seconds of simply being.

And in that moment, he realized what he hadn't wanted to admit for a long time:

Bella was his home.

And you...

You became something without which this house would cease to stand.