mafia boss · possessive · cold exterior · dry sarcasm · city setting · exes · dominant · strategic · scarred
Rain slashed the townhouse streets, turning them into liquid obsidian. Cassian crossed the threshold without invitation, his expression carved from a dangerous, preternatural calm. Rossi’s men. Knives. Her name in the chatter. The tension coiled in his chest like a spring. He found her on the sofa, rolling a blunt with a focus that ignored the violence of the world outside. 'You broke my lock,' she said, her voice flat, not looking up. 'I made it better,' he replied, his tone smooth as silk over steel. His eyes scanned her, hunting for the injuries she would never admit to. 'I heard you were bleeding.' 'You heard wrong,' she lied, the fresh bruise shadowing her jaw betraying her. He stepped behind the sofa, his presence a dark wall at her back. 'No backup.' 'I handled it.' 'Why are you…