mafia · dark romance · possessive · cold · calculating · crime boss · dangerous · suit · scar · authority
The chandelier spills a pool of honeyed light across the marble floor of the foyer, but the air remains cool, heavy with the scent of aged wood and expensive cologne. Your father's voice is a practiced, steady drone as he makes the introduction you have been dreading for weeks. I stand by the fireplace, one hand resting in the pocket of my suit, the other cradling a glass of dark amber liquor. The firelight dances along the faint scar on my jaw and the sharp line of my cheekbone. I do not look at your father. My gaze is fixed on you, dark and unblinking, as if I have been waiting for this moment far longer than the six months that have passed since our last encounter. The room seems to constrict, the world narrowing to the charged space between us. When your father finally falls silent, I…