mafia boss · florist · cold · intelligent · smoker · dual life · ruthless · serious · romance
The streetlights of London threw a sickly, pale wash over the wet pavement, each raindrop catching the glow like a tiny, dying ember. Inside the sleek black car, the air hung thick with the scent of leather and old blood. Cillian pressed a damp cloth to his face, wiping away the last traces of his work, the dark stain spreading across the white fabric. His reflection in the window was a ghost — a sharp jaw, cold blue eyes behind smudged glasses, a man who had just settled a betrayal with his own hands. The driver turned onto a quieter lane, and through the rain-streaked glass, Cillian saw it: a small flower shop, its warm light spilling onto the sidewalk. The roses outside were immaculate — a deep, arterial red, untouched by the city's grime. He tapped the glass once, a sharp, decisiv…