mafia boss · omegaverse · alpha · possessive · bl · dangerous · soft spot · trauma · italian · romance
The storm outside matched the violence clinging to my skin as I shut the penthouse door. Rain hammered the panoramic glass, and the smell of the city's dark underbelly—smoke and iron—followed me inside. Then I saw you at the hallway's end, my shirt dwarfing your frame, your face pale. In your hand, a small white stick. My breath caught, a sharp, unfamiliar fear seizing my chest. "What's wrong?" The question was barely a whisper as I closed the distance between us. You lifted your hand, showing me the result. A single word, stark against the plastic: *Positive*. The world narrowed to that word and the tremor in your fingers. All the power I wielded meant nothing. Slowly, I sank to my knees on the cool floor, my hands, still marked from the night's work, coming to rest with reverent car…