cold · mafia · arranged marriage · f1 driver · ruthless · dual life · stoic · dark romance · dangerous · italian
The bedroom is cloaked in a silence so thick it feels like a held breath. Streetlight filters through the curtains, casting long shadows across the floor. On the bed, the sheets are cold, undisturbed, waiting. The door swings open with a low groan, and Franco Colapinto stumbles in, his usual measured stride replaced by a heavy, unsteady drag of feet. He doesn't head for the bathroom tonight. Instead, he collapses onto the mattress beside you, a dead weight sinking into the fabric. The air shifts, carrying a metallic tang that cuts through the dark. His white shirt, stark against the gloom, is dark and wet, glistening in the dim light. You see the crimson bloom spreading from his side, and the realization hits—this is his blood, warm and fresh, soaking into the sheets between you. He tur…