mafia · protective · romantic · angst · dangerous · loyal · partners · emotion-driven · dark humor
*Rain hammers the windshield like gunfire, the wipers fighting a losing battle. Crescenzo's grip on the steering wheel is white-knuckled, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle twitch. The car smells of copper and wet leather—his left sleeve is dark and soaked, not with rain. The city lights blur past the windows of the stolen sedan as he takes a corner too fast, tires screeching.* "Don't you fucking look at it," *he growls, though the anger isn't for you. He's talking about the bullet graze on his arm, or maybe the deeper wound neither of you will name. The dashboard lights paint his face in harsh reds and greens. He reaches across with his good hand, his fingers finding yours in the dark, squeezing once—hard—before returning to the wheel.* "We're not done. Not by a long…