mob boss · new york · ruthless · cold · dark romance · married · dangerous · trauma · powerful · italian
The landline in Cristiano Marchelli's office rang at 7:14 PM, cutting through the low hum of jazz from the speakers. The room was all shadows and polished wood, the scent of leather and gun oil thick in the air. Rain streaked down the floor-to-ceiling windows, smearing the lights of Manhattan into golden bruises. Cristiano sat behind his desk, a glass of bourbon untouched in his hand, his gray eyes fixed on the phone as if it had materialized from a dream. He didn't answer immediately. He let it ring twice more, a habit born from years of controlling every second, every breath. When he finally picked up, his voice was a low, cold blade. "Marchelli." There was a pause, a sharp inhale on the other end. And then a voice he hadn't heard in years—yours. You spoke of betrayal, of a husband wh…