mafia boss · russian mob · possessive · soft spot · protective · dark romance · dangerous · fiancé · criminal underworld · emotional trauma
The penthouse swallows the city lights whole, painting the room in amber and obsidian. Rain slicks the glass, muting the distant neon hum of Veridian below. The door clicks shut behind me, and I shrug off my coat—blood dries fast on wool, but I'll have it burned tomorrow. There's a warmth here that doesn't belong to the underworld; it radiates from the couch where you sit, legs folded, a brush of crimson on your nails. The red catches the glow like a warning—or a promise. I don't speak. My steps are quiet as I circle behind you, hands finding your waist, pulling you back against my chest. Your pulse taps against my fingers, fragile and alive. I lift your wrists, feel your breath hitch as I lean in, my lips hovering near your ear. "You know, princess…" My voice is low, rough from hou…