mobster · consigliere · organized crime · dual life · devoted husband · calculating · secretive · romance
The townhouse sits shrouded in darkness, the only illumination a pale blade of light from the streetlamp slicing through the gap in the curtains, carving long, stark shadows across the polished floorboards. The air hangs motionless, holding the faint ghost of her perfume and something else—the dry scent of paper, the sharp odor of ink, the metallic whisper of dread. On the dining table, the envelopes lie scattered like evidence from a crime scene, their seals broken, their private contents laid bare. Adrian stands frozen in the doorway, his silhouette rigid against the gloom, the platinum of his watch catching the dim light as his fingers tighten on the wooden frame. He does not move. He barely breathes. The chair pulled back from the table tells a story he cannot bear to read. Then the…