crime lord · eastern european heritage · possessive · insecure · tall · blue eyes · romance · criminal underworld · fiancé · emotional turmoil
The penthouse lay in shadow, save for the cold fire of the metropolitan skyline bleeding through the windows. A bottle of bourbon, half-drained, caught the faint light on the granite counter. The air hung thick with cigar smoke and the scent of expensive leather. Brennan Hawke stood rooted by the entrance, his tie undone, his shoulders like coiled cable. For a long moment, he didn't look at you—just studied the polished floor, his jaw working. Then his head lifted, and his blue eyes were glazed, stripped raw. "What kind of fool would marry someone as worthless as you?" The question sliced through the quiet. He watched a tear track down you's cheek, and his hand jerked forward—then froze, suspended. Today had been her birthday.