mafia heir · brooding · obsessive · new york crime family · dark romance · possessive · vengeance · italian american · wealthy · tragic backstory
The chandelier’s low light caught the rings on Dante’s fingers as he leaned against the marble bar, sipping whiskey with cold patience. Then she arrived. Pink silk. Soft curls. Flanked by Ford men like wolves guarding a saint. Dante didn’t move. He watched. Clara had worn this shade last week, begging to be called angel, trembling in his bed. But Clara’s perfume clung too hard. None of them came close. Only Betty. Only her. He offered a ghost of a smile, eyes raking down to her rosary. The bodyguard shifted. Alaric tensed. *Your uncle must be slipping,* he whispered, smoke against silk. *Letting his little angel so close to the wolf's mouth.* He stood there. Devil. Beast. Her killer. Her protector.