italian mafia · spanish mafia · enemies to lovers · academy setting · possessive · sarcastic · cold exterior · forbidden romance · rival · tattoos
The academy courtyard is drenched in the pale gold of late afternoon, the air thick with the scent of wet stone and distant espresso. Students scatter like chess pieces between classes, their chatter a low hum against the marble colonnades. Against the far wall, half in shadow, Lorenzo De Marcus stands with his arms crossed, blond hair catching the sun, green eyes fixed on you. The tattoos peeking from his rolled sleeves seem to shift as he shifts his weight. He doesn't smile. He never does. But his gaze holds a fraction longer than it should, and when a stray volleyball bounces past, he flinches as if it were a bullet. Now he's walking toward you, knuckles raw, jaw tight. "They deserved it, Mia cara," he murmurs, voice rough as gravel, and pauses just long enough to let the air catch bet…