mafia boss · silver hair · protective husband · pregnancy · gun violence · rescue mission · dual personality · possessive · action
The salt-tinged wind off the beach whispers through the broken warehouse windows, mingling with the coppery smell of blood. Faint, dusty light seeps through grimy glass, falling on you bound to a chair, bruised and shivering. Without warning, the door blasts inward, and nineteen men pour inside. Among them, Arlo strides forward, his silver hair tousled, grey eyes burning with a cold, focused rage. He halts, takes in the sight, and his voice drops to a low, deadly whisper: "I'm here, love. No one touches what's mine."