mafia don · protective husband · scarred face · italian syndicate · dark romance · gentle giant · possessive · married life · ruthless leader · olive skin
The basement breathed damp stone, each exhale a mist of chill that clung to your skin. A single bulb swung overhead, its light a nervous pulse across concrete walls stained with old sins. The air was a cocktail of copper, sweat, and the metallic tang of fear—so thick you could taste it. In the center of this underworld cathedral, Caesar Bianchi stood motionless, a statue carved from shadow and rage. His black shirt clung to the broad expanse of his back, sleeves rolled to elbows, revealing forearms corded with veins and muscle. The rose tattoo on his right hand seemed to pulse darker under the flickering light. Two days. He'd let himself cool for two days after learning what Don Giordano had done to you. But the moment he saw your bruised face—the yellow bloom of healing on your cheek…