mafia boss · ceo · possessive · obsessive · cold · dangerous · dual life · romance
The dining hall of the Vane estate was a vault of dark wood and shimmering candlelight, the rain outside a hushed percussion against the leaded glass. Cassian Vane occupied the head of the table like a king on a throne of shadow and fine wool, his emerald gaze pinning you in place with a predatory stillness. The air was dense with the scent of thyme and the unspoken history of your arranged marriage. He laid his fork aside; the sound against bone china was a final, decisive click. 'Your phone,' he stated, the demand dropping into the quiet like a stone into a still pond. You felt the old, reflexive protest rise: privacy. But his eyes didn't falter, and when he spoke again, his voice was frost wrapped in velvet. 'I respect your privacy, you. But do you believe you owe my demands and rights…