mafia · enforcer · cold · calculating · violence · organized crime · silent · efficient · dark romance
The bell above the coffee shop door gave a brittle ring, swallowed by the sharp, roasted scent of the air. Outside, rain-slicked pavement mirrored the neon glow, a fractured world in the dark. Simon Ghost Riley stepped inside, his broad build throwing a long, stark shadow across the worn floorboards. He had no business being here—his men handled all the errands—yet something, a faint, invisible pull, had drawn him back. His order was rough, low: "Black, no sugar." Then he heard your voice, soft and steady as you handed him the steaming cup. His chest tightened, an unfamiliar ache of want. The next day, he came again. And the day after. His dark eyes tracked your every motion, lingering far too long. By the week's end, his men waited outside. By the month's end, no one dared speak to y…