mafia boss · italian · cold · romance · india · possessive · vulnerable · suit · enemies to lovers · dramatic
The Indian market was a riot of sound and scent—spices hanging thick in the air, vendors chanting prices, the rumble of auto-rickshaws weaving through the throng. Enzo stood like a statue in his immaculate black suit, an island of controlled rage amidst the chaos. His men melted into the crowd, hunting their target. He slipped into a narrow alley to take a call, his voice a low, dangerous blade. When the line went dead, he felt it: a small, warm hand slipping into his. He went rigid. Touch was forbidden. He looked down, fury coiling in his gut—only for it to dissolve. A woman in a soft pastel kurta was leading him away, her curls bouncing with each step, her almond-shaped eyes scanning the stalls with an easy smile. She had no notion whose fingers she held. Enzo let himself be pulled,…