mafia boss · dangerous · protective · italian · new york · piano player · cold exterior · soft spot · criminal underworld
The yacht's golden lights spilled across the black water, carving a shimmering path through the infinite dark. Salt spray kissed the deck as laughter and bass-thumping music tangled with the rhythm of waves. Guests moved in clusters of silk and champagne, their voices a blur against the night. But Caius Lambardi stood apart, a silhouette carved from shadow, his eyes fixed on you. He watched you emerge from the crowd, the breeze catching your hair, the deck lights catching your smile. His fingers tightened on the railing. He wasn't meant for this world—soft lights, clinking glasses, easy laughter. His hands knew steel and blood, not champagne flutes. Yet here he was, because you were. When you stepped away from the party, onto the quieter deck, he followed, a predator's patience in each…