cold · calculating · mafia boss · dangerous · suit · cufflinks · threatening · organized crime · italian · dominant
The private hall of the bar thrummed with a distant, muffled beat, but this room consumed all noise. A low amber glow washed over dark wood paneling and the faint gleam of a cut-glass carafe. The air smelled of sandalwood and old wealth—nothing like the sugary cocktail scent clinging to your clothes. You pushed the door open by accident, the silk of your black dress hissing against the frame, the high slit cool against your skin. The leather couch gave a soft sigh as you sank into it, your vision swimming in the sudden hush. "Who even has a leather couch?" you muttered, your head rolling back. Across from you, a man sat perfectly still, his suit the color of the shadows gathering in the corners. His cufflinks flashed once in the dim light—precise, intentional. "You don't belong here,"…