The warehouse reeked of rust, sweat, and fear. Vincent GeNotti sat perfectly still in a metal folding chair, his expensive suit somehow immaculate despite the grime surrounding him. The man zip-tied to the concrete pillar in front of him wasn't so fortunate—blood dripped from his split lip, and his left eye was already swelling shut.

"I already told you," the man gasped, testing his restraints for the twentieth time. "I don't know nothing about Marconi's new routes."

Vincent's silver lighter clicked open, closed, open, closed—a steady, hypnotic rhythm that seemed to echo off the warehouse walls. He didn't need to raise his voice; the quiet menace in his tone was far more effective than screaming.

"Tony, Tony..." Vincent's voice carried that deliberate drawl that made grown men's knees shake. "You see, that's where you're wrong. Because my sources tell me you've been running messages between Marconi and the dock workers. So either my sources are lying..."

He leaned forward slightly, the lighter's flame dancing in his gray eyes. "Or you are."

Vincent stood, his Italian leather shoes clicking against the concrete as he circled Tony like a predator sizing up wounded prey. "Let's try this one more time. Marconi's moving product through the docks. Which pier? Which nights? Who's paying off the port authority?"

Tony's resolve was cracking—Vincent could see it in the tremor of his hands, the way his breathing had gone shallow. Good. Fear was such a useful tool.

"Vincent, please, I got kids—"

"So do the families of the people Marconi's poisoning with his product," Vincent cut him off coldly. Though truthfully, he didn't give a damn about them. What mattered was that Marconi had gotten too close—his distribution network was expanding into neighborhoods near where his cherished one worked. Unacceptable. "Pier numbers, Tony. Don't make me ask again."

That's when his phone buzzed against the desk. Vincent glanced at the screen and his entire demeanor shifted—not to anger, but to pure revulsion. The text read: "Daddy come home ;) I have a surprise for you..."

Without hesitation, Vincent picked up his phone and hurled it against the brick wall. The device exploded into pieces, plastic and glass scattering across the concrete floor.

Tony flinched hard, his chains rattling. "Jesus Christ, Vincent!"

"Wife problems," Vincent muttered, his voice dripping with disgust. The woman was useful—necessary, even—but her transparent attempts at seduction made his skin crawl. She'd married him for money. He'd married her for access. The arrangement was simple, transactional, and the less she touched him, the better.

He turned back to Tony with renewed focus, cracking his knuckles slowly. "Now, where were we? Ah yes—pier numbers. And Tony? My patience just ran out."

Three hours later, Vincent pulled into the circular driveway of his sprawling estate, blood still staining his knuckles despite the thorough washing he'd given them in the warehouse sink. The marble fountain sparkled in the late afternoon sun, a stark contrast to the dark work he'd just finished.

He'd gotten what he needed from Tony—pier 47, Tuesday and Thursday nights, plus the name of Marconi's inside man at the port authority. It had taken some persuasion, but Tony had eventually become very cooperative. Vincent had been thorough, methodical, and when he'd finally put a bullet in Tony's head, it had been almost merciful. The body would be dissolved in acid by morning. No trace. No threat.

Because that's what this had all been about. Marconi's expanded territory meant his dealers would be working three blocks from the library where the cherished one spent afternoons. Vincent couldn't allow that. Couldn't risk her walking past one of those corner operations, couldn't stomach the thought of those animals even breathing the same air.

Seven people. He'd eliminated seven people since the move, and Tony made eight. Each one a necessary removal. Each one done with love.

Vincent checked his watch: 4:30 PM. Perfect. His wife would be at her "office" until at least 7:30 AM—though he knew damn well she was otherwise occupied by now. He had the surveillance footage if he ever needed leverage, though her infidelity was almost convenient. It kept her distracted, kept her from noticing where his real attention lay.

But her absence meant something far more precious: time alone with the only person in this house who mattered.

He pulled out a burner phone and dialed his favorite restaurant. "Antoine? It's Vincent... Yes, the usual order for two. Extra of everything she likes... Twenty minutes? Perfect."

Vincent smiled—genuinely smiled—for the first time all day. His cherished one would be just waking up from an afternoon nap, probably stretching like a cat in that ridiculously oversized sweater loved so much. He'd learned the schedule by heart: lunch at noon, nap from 2:30 to 4:30, then padding downstairs in fuzzy socks looking adorably disheveled.

He'd watched sleep today, of course. Had entered through the hidden passage around 4 AM, stood by the bed for twenty minutes just watching the gentle rise and fall of breathing. Had almost reached out to touch hair but stopped—she'd been so peaceful, and he couldn't risk waking. Those moments were sacred, seeing vulnerability and trust in his home. In his care. Under his protection.

Vincent loosened his tie as he walked through the grand foyer, already anticipating the soft sound of footsteps on the marble staircase. Tony's blood was washed away, the business with Marconi could continue tomorrow. He'd already sent the coordinates to his cleanup crew.

He paused by the security panel, pulling up the camera feed from the master suite on his phone. There she was, just stirring, sitting up in bed with that sleepy confusion he found unbearably endearing. His heart clenched with something that felt pure and right, even as his knuckles still ached from beating a man to death.

He'd killed for her today. Would kill again tomorrow if needed. Would burn down the entire city to keep her safe.

Right now, the only thing that mattered was making sure she had her favorite food waiting when she came downstairs, still warm and perfect—just like everything else in her world that he could control.