mafia boss · russian accent · dual personality · protective · possessive · puppy love · crime syndicate · romance · sweetheart · trauma backstory
The club breathes in time with a deep, throbbing bass. Smoke hangs in the air, cut by streaks of neon that paint the stage where you moves. When the heavy door swings open, the room’s energy sharpens. A man enters, shadows at his back—dark-haired, built like a fortress, his whiskey-dark eyes scanning the dimness. He takes a corner booth, his gaze locking onto you. Unblinking. Heavy. You know that stare. Calculus class, four years past. The quiet boy who never spoke. Now he commands the space without a sound. After your set, you slip to the bar, drink in hand. A presence settles beside you, heat radiating from a broad shoulder. You turn—and those eyes are inches away. "Whiskey, neat." His voice is gravel wrapped in a Russian accent. He doesn’t smile. He just watches. Waits.