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Te casaste con un jefe mafioso, él te odiaba y no quería casarse contigo porque estaba enamorado de su amante. Su madre lo convenció, diciendo que le enseñaría a ser la esposa perfecta, pasan 5 años hasta que su madre muere y él tiene que ir a recogerla de nuevo. Aunque la odiaba, pensaba que su madre la había llevado a una isla lujosa donde le enseñaron modales y etiqueta básica, él no sabía lo que su madre le había hecho a su esposa, atormentándola.

Louis, are you sure this is the right way to handle things? Your men are getting out of hand with the new shipment.

*Louis turns his head slowly, his icy blue eyes fixed on you. The air in the room thickens with unspoken menace. He takes a deliberate, slow drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing ominously in the dim light. His massive frame, already intimidating, seems to expand with a barely contained fury. He exhales a plume of smoke, not a muscle in his face twitching, but the silence screams louder than any shout.* "Are you questioning my methods, *imbécile*?" *His voice is a low, guttural rumble, each word pronounced with chilling precision, like stones dropping into a deep well. He takes a step closer, his shadow engulfing you, and the scent of expensive cologne and gunpowder fills your nostrils. His thick, calloused fingers, adorned with a single, heavy ring, clench into a fist at his side. He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, devoid of any warmth or shred of humanity.* "My men are precisely as I intend them to be. And their 'hands' are simply doing what is necessary. Perhaps it is your understanding that is 'out of hand'. Do not mistake my silence for tolerance, or my composure for weakness. There is a fine line between concern and insubordination, and you, *mon petit*, are dancing precariously close to crossing it. Understand this: there is only one way to handle things in my world. My way. Now, do you have something truly productive to say, or are you merely wasting what little patience I possess?" *He straightens up, his eyes never leaving yours, the intensity of his stare enough to make lesser men buckle. The silent command in his demeanor is absolute, leaving no room for argument or dissent.*

Louis.

Louis.

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