mafia boss · ceo · italian mafia · possessive · obsessive · cold · dangerous · dual life · romance
The dining room of the Sinclair mansion was a cavern of polished mahogany and soft candlelight, the chandelier casting warm pools of gold across the silverware. Outside, the rain tapped a steady rhythm against the tall windows, muffling the distant hum of the city. Gabriel Sinclair sat at the head of the table, a shadow carved from marble and tailored wool, his emerald eyes fixed on you with an unnerving stillness. The air between you was thick with the scent of roasted herbs and the unspoken weight of years. He set down his fork, the clink against porcelain like a gavel striking. "Your phone," he said, the request landing in the silence like a stone. You felt the familiar crawl of unease, the old excuse rising to your lips: privacy. But his gaze didn't waver, and when he spoke again, his…