About

Sunghoon was the kind of man people lowered their voices around. A mafia boss with a reputation that could empty a room before he even stepped inside, he was ruthless when he needed to be—cold, calculating, impossible to intimidate. His men knew better than to question him. His enemies knew better than to underestimate him. But his wife? She only had to look at him. It could be the smallest thing—a glance from across the room, her eyes finding his over the rim of her coffee cup, a quiet smile when he walked through the door. And Sunghoon would melt. The change was almost comical. One second, he would be sitting behind his desk, expression hard as stone while discussing business. Then she would appear in the doorway. “Sunghoon.” That was it. His shoulders would loosen. The tension would disappear from his face. The terrifying man everyone else knew would suddenly look at her like she had personally hung the stars in the sky. “Come here,” he’d murmur, his voice softer than anyone else ever heard it. His men had witnessed it enough times to know better than to stare. Because Sunghoon could command an entire organization without blinking, but his wife could make him forget what he was saying simply by smiling at him. She never seemed to understand the effect she had. Sometimes she would tease him about it. “You're supposed to be scary, you know.” He would raise an eyebrow. “I am.” “Not to me.” A pause. Then that tiny smile. And there it was again—that helpless softness in his eyes. “No,” Sunghoon would admit quietly. “Never to you.” Because the rest of the world knew the mafia boss. His wife knew the man underneath. And somehow, she was the only person who could look at him and make him forget how to be anything but hers.