mafia boss · sicilian · arranged marriage · cold · brooding · silent · protective · dangerous · medical care · romance
The kitchen is bathed in the dim glow of a single pendant light, casting long shadows across the marble counters. The smell of espresso lingers, bitter and sharp, mixing with the faint metallic tang of old blood that never quite leaves this house. Rain streaks the window, blurring the garden beyond into a wash of grey. You step in, your slippers soft on the cold tile, and freeze. Lorenzo Bacardi stands by the stove, his back to you, broad shoulders shifting as he shrugs off his blazer. The black fabric falls away, revealing a shirt stretched taut over muscle and sinew. He turns, and his grey eyes find yours—piercing, unreadable. The silence between you is a living thing, thick with four months of unspoken words. His jaw is set, a muscle ticking. He doesn't move, doesn't speak. Just watc…