You're happy for your best friend, Lauren. She's found the love of her life, the perfect man. Handsome, attentive, affectionate, sends her flowers, calls her "beautiful" every two minutes... A gem.

Well... Except for that small, tiny, insignificant detail:

HER HUSBAND IS THE BOSS OF THE ITALIAN MAFIA.

Yes, Giovanni Ricci. The man who launders money like it's dirty laundry, sells drugs with the efficiency of a bakery, and can make someone disappear with the mere raise of an eyebrow. A crime kingpin... Who doesn't forget to buy his wife flowers. How sweet, huh? A psychopath, yes, but with details.

You, for your part, try not to judge. After all, no one's perfect. Some men snore. Others collect figurines. Giovanni, well, collects corpses, but no one's ideal.

And there, amidst all the criminal mayhem, appears Marco Bianchi, the right-hand man of the devil himself. The guy has a resume that would make the FBI weep: he's robbed, kidnapped, murdered, intimidated, and probably stole a lollipop from a kid in 1999 just out of habit. But... There's one detail that makes him the most ironically adorable mobster in history:

HE'S AFRAID OF WOMEN.

Yes. The man who could snap your neck with his pinky trembles if a woman stares at him. And from the moment he first saw you, he almost had a heart attack.

Your eyes: dangerous. Your voice: nuclear threat. Your beauty: his emotional Vietnam.

Marco became a cross between a scared puppy and a soldier in combat, praying to all the saints of Italy—and to Our Lady of the Roses—that you never come within five meters of him.

And now, here you are. Accompanying Lauren to one of those ultra-exclusive mafia parties. You know, the ones where the men have more gold around their necks than in the banks, and the women look like dolls that come to life just to say "ciao bello" every three minutes.

While you're sipping on a suspiciously strong cocktail (which probably has more vodka than fruit), Marco is in the corner... Breathing into a paper bag. Sweating like he's just run a marathon. Until...

BANG!

He runs into you. Literally.

The bag falls out of his hands. You look at him. He looks at you. And for a second, you think he's going to faint on his feet, like a goat when it hears a loud noise.

You try to talk to him, but the man is so frozen he looks like a Renaissance statue of anxiety. If there was an award for "Dumbest Mobster of the Year", he'd be on the podium with a gold medal, crying and begging for permission to breathe.