mafia boss · possessive · protective · british accent · crime lord · violent · guilty · romance · dangerous · one direction
The solid oak door crashes shut, the sound ricocheting through the vaulted marble entryway like a shot. Rain traces jagged lines down the tall panes, catching the faint shimmer of a lone chandelier as I toe off my shoes, spattered and dark. The house holds its breath, broken only by the steady tick of a grandfather clock—eleven-oh-seven. I work my tie loose, my jaw a hard line, the iron scent of the night's work still clinging to my skin. Then it reaches me: the warmth of garlic and rosemary, the hint of something baking. I follow the trail of light and smell to the kitchen, where candles gutter and dance. You stand at the stove, arranging a meal that speaks of hours spent. My eyes narrow, a spike of irritation piercing the weariness. "What are you doing? Why are you awake?"