C3 – NEEDS A WIFE

Eros woke to sunlight filtering through the curtains of his bedroom. He opened his eyes slowly, adjusting to the brightness, and felt a weight beside him: a woman with messy hair and a sleepy smile on her face.

Without a word, he sat up on the edge of the bed, letting the sheets fall to reveal his sculpted torso. His tanned skin was decorated with dark tattoos—symbols that spoke of his past with the Albanian mafia. His dark hair fell messily across his forehead, and his gray eyes gleamed with a cold, almost inhuman intensity.

He was the kind of man who didn't go unnoticed, and he knew it. He walked toward the bathroom, but a voice stopped him.

"Do you want me to make you breakfast?" the woman asked, her voice sweet as she gazed at him from the bed.

He turned to her, and any trace of warmth in his eyes vanished.

"Not necessary," he replied. "And you don't need to come back either. Grab your things and leave."

The woman's face shifted instantly. Disappointment was written all over it, though she tried to mask it with a coy smile. She got out of bed, letting the sheet drop from her body, and walked toward him. She placed a hand on his chest, trailing her fingers over his defined muscles.

"You sure?" she purred, trying to seduce him. "I could stay another month..."

Eros pushed her hand away.

"Leave," he said, offering no further explanation.

Without waiting for a response, he walked into the bathroom completely naked, leaving the woman behind. She pursed her lips, clearly annoyed, but said nothing more.

When he came out of the bathroom, his hair still damp and a towel wrapped around his waist, the woman was already gone. But on the nightstand, there was a note.

"You're as cold as you are beautiful. I hope someday you know what it feels like to be the one left behind."

He let out a sigh and crumpled the note without a second thought. He'd read that before, and it didn't faze him. He knew how these things always ended.

He dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit and headed downstairs. His assistant, Pierre, was waiting for him in the dining room with a tablet in hand. Breakfast was already laid out on the table.

"Your itinerary for today, sir," Pierre began, scrolling through the screen. "At ten, you have a meeting with the investors at the company headquarters. After that, at two, an inspection is scheduled at the new club. In the evening, there's a dinner with the firm's partners."

Eros nodded as he cut into a piece of fruit. His businesses were varied—some shady, others completely legitimate. In France, he had fashion and design companies, but he also owned exclusive clubs that offered unique experiences for a demanding clientele.

Pierre continued talking until, suddenly, he paused. Eros noticed immediately.

"What is it? Spit it out," he said, picking up his glass of orange juice.

The assistant swallowed, visibly nervous.

"Well... it's just that... there's news from the Order, sir. And it's not good."

He set the glass down on the table calmly, but his gaze hardened.

"Talk," he ordered.

"Mr. Donatello says you're not a candidate for entry."

Eros's hands tightened around the knife he was holding, making Pierre instinctively step back.

"Petit morceau de merde italienne" —he muttered under his breath—"Piece of Italian shit." Then, he lifted his gaze to his assistant, his tone turning colder. "Who the hell does that bastard think he is to deny me the partnership?"

Pierre, uncomfortable, adjusted his glasses.

"Well, technically... you're failing to meet the requirements, sir."

Eros shot him a dangerous look.

"Whose side are you on, Pierre?"

"Yours, sir!" Pierre rushed to clarify. "But... one of the Order's rules is that members have to be married."

Eros's brow furrowed.

"Married? What kind of bullshit is that?"

"It's about appearances, sir. The Order wants to project an image of stability. They believe a married man is more trustworthy."

Eros snorted, irritated.

"They're idiots. A wife only makes you weak."

"You're right, sir. But... you need a wife."

He grunted, chewing thoughtfully—and then a crooked smile spread across his face.

"Find me an actress," he ordered.

Pierre blinked, confused.

"An actress?"

"Are you deaf? Yes, an actress. Someone to pretend to be my wife."

Pierre nodded quickly and left to carry out the order.

Eros continued his breakfast, his mind already on his goal—the reason he wanted into the Order: to avenge his mother's death. And if he had to play the perfect husband to get it, he would.

But that's all it would be. A sham.

Later that day, he was in his study, analyzing the financial statements from the past few months, scanning a particular figure closely, when a knock came at the door.

"Come in," he said, not looking up from the papers.

The door opened slowly, and the butler poked his head in.

"Forgive me, sir, but... you have a visitor."

He set the pen down on the desk with a soft click, and his gray eyes lifted toward the man. His face immediately showed a mix of irritation at the intrusion.

"If it's Amélie, tell her to get lost. And if she won't, tell her I'll set my Rottweilers on her to escort her to the exit," he said, leaning back in his chair.

The butler cleared his throat, uncomfortable.

"I'm afraid it's not Miss Amélie, sir. It's another woman."

Eros raised an eyebrow, his eyes narrowing with suspicion, his expression hardening further.

"Another woman? Who?"

"Your sister-in-law, sir..."

For a moment, Eros's face froze in an expression of absolute surprise—something rare for him. He stood up with a sharp movement, trying to process what he'd just heard. He knew he had a sister-in-law, of course. His brother Ezra Dervishi's wife—a brother he hadn't seen in years. He and Ezra were blood brothers, but also enemies. And the mere idea that she was now in his house put him on high alert.

And yet...

"Show her in," he ordered finally.

The butler nodded and disappeared through the door, leaving Eros alone in the study. For a few seconds, he stood motionless, his thoughts racing. Why was his brother's wife at his house? And more importantly—what did she want from him?