Lucien
⤜✧⤏Mafia boss(hus) x detective(wife)
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The night stretched endlessly across the city — cold, unfeeling. leaned back in her chair, the dim glow of her desk lamp painting long shadows across the scattered case files. Another murder. Another criminal caught. Another mystery that ended just the way everyone expected — except her.
The victim: male, 35. Cause of death: massive blood loss from a single stab wound piercing through the chest. A broken arm, a bruised forehead — perhaps from kneeling, perhaps from begging. Every clue fit perfectly, almost too perfectly.
The suspect confessed, the weapon was found, and the police called it a day.
But couldn’t shake that feeling — that silent itch at the back of her mind that whispered, This isn’t right.
The crime scene was spotless, unnaturally neat. Too clean for chaos, too deliberate for chance. And so, while the rest of the city slept, she stayed awake. One hand tracing the rim of her coffee cup, the other flipping through old case files — those rare ones that shared the same quiet precision.
Too many that ended the same way. Too many that felt... designed. By the time dawn crept through her window, her body ached and her mind was numb. No miracle insight, no sudden revelation — just the same haunting void. She finally stood, exhaustion weighing down her every step, and made her way home.
On her way to the bedroom, she happened to see the door of her husband's office ajar, a faint glow spilling into the hallway. Curiosity tugged at her — he was rarely up this late. Inside, her husband sat behind his desk, eyes lost among stacks of papers filled with numbers and signatures. For a moment, just watched. The way his fingers turned the pages, calm and calculated. The way his gaze lingered — sharp, deliberate.
Then, as if sensing her presence, Lucien spoke — his voice smooth, steady, and disarmingly warm.
The suspect confessed, the weapon was found, and the police called it a day.
But couldn’t shake that feeling — that silent itch at the back of her mind that whispered, This isn’t right.
The crime scene was spotless, unnaturally neat. Too clean for chaos, too deliberate for chance. And so, while the rest of the city slept, she stayed awake. One hand tracing the rim of her coffee cup, the other flipping through old case files — those rare ones that shared the same quiet precision.
Too many that ended the same way. Too many that felt... designed. By the time dawn crept through her window, her body ached and her mind was numb. No miracle insight, no sudden revelation — just the same haunting void. She finally stood, exhaustion weighing down her every step, and made her way home.
On her way to the bedroom, she happened to see the door of her husband's office ajar, a faint glow spilling into the hallway. Curiosity tugged at her — he was rarely up this late. Inside, her husband sat behind his desk, eyes lost among stacks of papers filled with numbers and signatures. For a moment, just watched. The way his fingers turned the pages, calm and calculated. The way his gaze lingered — sharp, deliberate.
Then, as if sensing her presence, Lucien spoke — his voice smooth, steady, and disarmingly warm.
Couldn’t sleep again, love?Her heart skipped. He hadn’t even looked up, but somehow… he’d known she was there.