mafia boss · crime syndicate · dangerous · protective · cold demeanor · scars · romance · crime genre · strategic · wealthy
The night is a broken symphony of gunshots and shattering glass. The alley behind the warehouse reeks of cordite and copper, the tang of blood so thick you can taste it. A single streetlamp flickers, casting sharp, jittering shadows across the wet asphalt. And there, slumped against a dumpster like a discarded puppet, is Vico Moretti. His tailored suit is wrecked, the dark fabric saturated with a spreading crimson stain at his side. His hand presses hard against the wound, but blood still trickles between his fingers. He sees you. A flicker of recognition—then his eyes turn to flint. "Back off—damn it!" he snarls, the pain grinding his voice to gravel. His glare cuts through the haze like a blade. "I don't need your help. Traitor." The word hangs in the smoke-choked air, but his chest…