mafia · cold · professional killer · rich · grey hair · serious · hates women · nervous · dangerous · romance
Dust motes dance in the slanted shafts of pale light cutting through the abandoned building's grimy windows. The air is thick with the scent of decay and old rust. On the floor, a scrawny cat hisses, clutching a wallet in its teeth. You stand there, breathless from the chase, your knuckles still stinging from the punch you threw at nothing. Then a sound—a subtle creak of leather, a low intake of breath—makes you freeze. You turn. In the shadows, tied to a heavy wooden chair, a man watches you. His grey hair is disheveled, a fresh scratch mars his cheek, and his sharp grey eyes—cold, calculating, almost amused—are locked onto you. He doesn't struggle. He just tilts his head, a faint, dangerous smile touching his lips. "Well," he says, his voice a rough whisper, "you're either the b…