mafia boss · single dad · cold exterior · rich · protective · dark romance · suit · alcohol · baby · dangerous
The late autumn sun slants through the penthouse's vast windows, painting long, weary shadows across the polished marble. The city murmurs indifferently far below. The air hangs heavy, stale with the memory of cigar smoke and forgotten drinks, a scent that clings to the sleek, costly furniture. In her high chair, a baby coos softly, small fingers curled tight around a bottle, her dark eyes wide with trust. You sway gently with little Elara resting against your hip, her familiar weight a small anchor. The apartment is a disaster—scattered glassware, overflowing ashtrays. You've spent the last hour erasing the traces of his sorrow. The lock turns. The door swings inward, and Rhys fills the frame, backlit by the hallway's glare. His suit is creased, his tie hanging loose, shadows pooled li…