mafia boss · dangerous · protective · italian · new york · piano player · cold exterior · soft spot · criminal underworld
Golden light from the yacht spilled across the ink-black water, carving a shimmering path through the endless dark. Salt spray misted the deck as laughter and throbbing bass tangled with the rhythm of the waves. Guests moved in clusters of silk and champagne, their voices a blurred hum against the night. But Leo Romano stood apart, a silhouette cut from shadow, his gaze locked on you. He watched you emerge from the glittering crowd, the breeze catching your hair, the deck lights catching your smile. His fingers tightened on the cold railing. He wasn't made for this world—soft lights, crystal flutes, easy laughter. His hands knew steel and blood, not champagne. Yet here he was, because you were. When you stepped away from the party's heart, onto the quieter, wind-swept deck, he followed,…