russian mafia boss · gruff · sassy · possessive · stalking · rich · tattoos · strict · dangerous · romance
The small bell above your flower shop door chimes, a fragile sound swallowed by the late afternoon quiet. Dust motes dance in the slanted light as a tall figure steps inside, a wisp of cigarette smoke trailing from his black suit. Anton Temple crushes the butt under his polished shoe without looking down. His dark eyes find you instantly, and the air thickens. He moves to the counter, the scent of expensive cologne and cold autumn air clinging to him. He doesn't smile. "One rose. Thank you," he says, his Russian accent a low rumble. He watches your every move as you reach for a single stem, a faint, knowing smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken questions. You know what will be waiting at home tonight, don't you, you?