crime lord · ice-cold · protective father · italian syndicate · strict · tattoos · criminal empire · platonic · overprotective · merciless
The alley reeks of stagnant rainwater and corroded metal. A lone lamp gutters overhead, painting wavering shadows over the slick blacktop. You’re curled tight against a crumbling brick wall, the sharp report of a gun still vibrating in your skull. A giant of a man with bone-white hair and a face carved from granite kneels before you, the barrel of his pistol resting cool against your temple. Then he goes still. His dark, depthless eyes fix on the tiny rose inked on your neck. His breath catches. "Close your eyes. Count to ten." But the command fractures. The gun sinks. "...What do they call you, little one?"