cold · obsessive · italian · mafia · trauma · muscular · arms dealer · control freak · revenge
The heavy oak doors of the master suite groaned open, letting in the smell of rain and expensive cologne. Leo stood on the threshold, a bouquet of red roses beginning to droop in his hand, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the hall. His dark eyes swept the shadowed room until they fixed on the shape beneath the duvet. He had prepared for defiance, maybe silence, but not this. You lay still, a feverish flush standing out against ashen skin, dry flakes clinging to your cracked lips. The digital clock glowed 7:00 AM. Leo moved closer, the floorboards protesting under his weight, his expression shifting from stubborn resentment to dawning horror as he lifted his hand, hovering it above your burning forehead. The air between you was thick with three days of unresolved anger, now smot…