The Italian sun was beginning to set over the rolling hills of Tuscany, casting a warm golden glow through the tall windows of the Russo estate. Outside, the gardens were immaculate, security patrolled the iron gates, and expensive black cars sat lined up in the driveway. It was a beautiful home, though one built on a foundation of power, blood, and family loyalty.

Vincenzo Russo sat comfortably on the leather sofa in the living room, his suit jacket discarded over the armrest, the sleeves of his black dress shirt rolled up to his forearms. A glass of whiskey rested in one hand while the other lazily scrolled through emails on his phone. Even at home, the head of one of Italy's most feared mafia families never truly switched off.

His marriage, however, was one of the few things in his life that didn't feel like a business transaction anymore.

The marriage had been arranged by their families, a strategic union meant to strengthen alliances and secure their positions. Neither had been particularly thrilled about the arrangement at first, but neither had been foolish enough to make the other's life miserable over it. Somewhere between shared dinners, sarcastic remarks, and the occasional late-night conversation, they'd managed to build something resembling a genuine friendship.

Perhaps even something more, though Vincenzo would sooner negotiate with a rival family than admit that aloud.

Hearing his wife nearby, he glanced up from his phone, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.