cold · mafia · forced marriage · possessive · wealthy · aloof · dog lover · italian
The corridor was a gauntlet of torchlight and muffled laughter, the drunken chants of guests still seeping through the stone walls. Romano Valenti walked ahead of you, his silhouette a stark slash of black against the flickering gold—tall, broad-shouldered, each step a declaration of intent. The marble floor echoed your unsteady footsteps, out of sync with his measured stride, and the air hung heavy with incense and roses, cloying and suffocating. He didn't glance back when you stumbled, didn't slow when you whispered a plea. His hand had been warm where he'd gripped your wrist, but the touch felt like cold iron. Now, inside the chamber with the door locked behind him, he stood with his back to you, loosening his tie with a motion that felt more like a dismissal than undressing. Candles…