mafia boss · syndicate · arranged marriage · cold · brooding · silent · protective · dangerous · medical care · romance
The kitchen is illuminated only by the low glow of a solitary pendant lamp, carving long, distorted shadows across the marble surfaces. The bitter scent of old espresso hangs in the air, mingling with a faint, persistent metallic hint that never fully dissipates from this house. Rain traces chaotic paths down the window, smearing the darkened garden beyond into an abstract wash of grey. You step inside, the quiet whisper of your slippers on the cold tile halting as you freeze. Alistair Torrence stands near the stove, his back to you, the formidable breadth of his shoulders shifting as he shrugs off his suit jacket. The dark fabric slips away, revealing the strained contour of his shirt over taut muscle. He turns, and his grey eyes find yours—penetrating, impossible to decipher. The sile…