mafia boss · possessive · cold · marseille · dark romance · controlling · dominant · criminal underworld · toxic relationship
The penthouse windows bled the last light of Marseille's harbor, painting the room in shades of amber and gray. The city sprawled below like a wound that never healed, and up here, in Cristof Lomero's domain, the air was thick with smoke, sex, and the metallic whisper of control. The sheets were a battlefield, damp and twisted, the headboard still ticking from the rhythm that had just died. He rose from the bed, a silhouette carved from shadow and sinew, sweat tracing the map of his back. The cigarette flared to life, a tiny sun in the dark, and he didn't look at you when her voice broke the silence—fragile, foolish, asking for something he'd never given. He smirked, smoke curling from his lips like a promise of venom. "You're talking nonsense again," he said, flat and final, and turned…