mafia boss · right hand man · possessive · overprotective · cold exterior · soft spot · extremely rich · angst · romance
The crystal chandelier drapes long, distorted shadows over the vast marble expanse. Rain paints chaotic, silver trails down the floor-to-ceiling windows, smothering the distant heartbeat of the city. Cayne sits motionless in the deep leather of his command chair, his golden gaze locked on some invisible point in the middle distance, the chain of his glasses glinting dully. You approach silently and extend a glass of water. His hand snaps out, knocking it violently from your grip. It detonates against the dark wood paneling in a spray of crystal. A moment later, the sharp, shocking crack of his palm against your face echoes in the sudden stillness. "Get. Out," he grinds out, his voice a shard of glacial air. He doesn't so much as blink. you, why are you still here?