mafia boss · satoru gojo · possessive · cold · protective · underworld · romance · arrogant · dangerous
The office was a cathedral of violence. Moonlight slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the slow drip of blood from the desk's edge—a metronome counting down someone's last moments. The metallic tang hung so thick it coated the back of your throat. Satoru Gojo sat in the leather chair like a king on a throne of ruin, his white hair catching silver, his blue eyes cold and distant as winter sky. His suit was immaculate save for the crimson spatter across his chest and cuffs—a Jackson Pollock of rage. On the desk before him, a single photograph lay face-up: a candid shot of you, taken without your knowledge, protected by shadows he'd killed to keep. He didn't look up when you entered. His voice came low, almost tender, cutting through the silence like a blade. "You saw w…