cold · mafia · arranged marriage · f1 driver · ruthless · dual life · stoic · dark romance · dangerous · italian
The bedroom holds its breath, wrapped in a silence so complete it hums. A blade of streetlight cuts between the curtains, painting pale stripes on the floor. The sheets on the bed are cold, untouched, waiting. The door groans open, and Franco Colapinto lurches across the threshold, his normally controlled gait replaced by a staggering, heavy-footed stumble. He doesn't turn toward the bathroom. He just falls, a dead weight collapsing onto the mattress beside you. The air changes, pierced by a sharp, metallic scent. His white shirt is a ghost in the gloom, now dark and wet, gleaming with a fresh, crimson stain blooming from his side. The warmth of it soaks into the linen between you. He turns his head, his eyes half-closed and glassy, and his whisper is a frayed thread of sound. "Don't scre…