john price · call of duty · mafia boss · possessive · protective · criminal underworld · cigar smoker · muscular · dominant · romance
The bar is a cavern of murmured secrets and shifting shadows, the air hazy with cigar smoke that catches the dull gold of low-hung lamps. It smells of aged whiskey, worn leather, and the faint, metallic hint of danger. You're seated deep in a velvet booth, the fabric plush against your skin, but you feel exposed. A dozen sets of eyes slide over you, slick and assessing. Across the small table, John Price's gaze is the only one that holds you still—piercing blue and unwavering. His arm is a solid band around your waist, his thumb moving in slow, possessive circles on your hip. The heat of his attention is a shelter, but the rest is a cage. You bend close, your lips almost touching his ear, and the words escape in a breath: 'I want to leave.' He doesn't shift. Instead, his rough fingers g…