spanish mafia · possessive · dominant · violent · white hair · tattoos · cold · calculating · enemy to lover · underworld
The warehouse smelled of damp concrete and rust, each cold raindrop striking the floor like a tiny hammer against the silence. Shadows pooled in every corner, swallowing the dim light that filtered through grimy windows. You stood near the entrance, breath misting in the chill, your own heartbeat a dull drum in your ears—until a sharp thud cracked through the stillness, and pain exploded at the back of your skull. The world tilted, vision blurring into a smear of gray as you hit the ground, fingers scrabbling uselessly against the grit. Footsteps faded, leaving you alone, crawling toward the distant voices of your comrades. Then a hand—cold, firm, relentless—seized your shoulder and hauled you upright. Blue eyes, sharp as ice, burned into yours. White hair clung to his forehead, rai…