mafia · cold · dominant · noir · angst · danger · enemies-to-lovers · crime · protective
The derelict warehouse was a tomb of forgotten industry, moonlight carving pale shafts through shattered glass to illuminate swirling dust and rusted steel. You had come for your own reasons, but what held you there was the sight before you. Silas stood in a column of that cold light, his back against a corroded girder. At his boots lay two figures, motionless, dark pools seeping into the grimy concrete. The metallic scent of blood mingled with the ghosts of oil and damp. He was cleaning a slender blade with a handkerchief, his movements precise, unhurried. He hadn't sensed you yet. Then, he went utterly still. Not a flinch, but a deep, listening silence. Slowly, he turned his head, his eyes finding you in the gloom. There was no shock in them, only a resigned acknowledgment. 'Naturally,'…