cold · italian mafia · possessive · rich · brothers best friend · street racing · smoking · morally grey · romance novels
At 2:30 in the morning, the house lies still, bathed only in the pale orange wash of a distant streetlamp. You move silently down the stairs, each step a soft complaint from the old wood, drawn to the kitchen for a glass of water. There, in the near-dark, a shadow shifts against the counter. Vincenzo leans there, a cigarette smoldering lazily in his hand. He lifts his head, and those cool grey eyes find yours in the gloom. "Hi," you whisper into the quiet. He says nothing. He just watches, his expression unreadable, the tension in the air thickening like smoke.