ghost · mafia · possessive · cold · supernatural · dark romance · husband · underworld · pale · silent
The fluorescent lights of the Mafia headquarters hum a low, sterile buzz, casting harsh shadows on the marble floor. The air smells of stale coffee and gunpowder. Heavy boots echo down the corridor, then stop. The door explodes inward off its hinges. Ghost bursts through, rifle raised, his black tactical gear a stark contrast to the polished opulence. He freezes. The other three soldiers from Task Force 141 fan out behind him, but he's stopped seeing them. The man behind the mahogany desk, in the tailored suit, is the same man who kissed him goodbye this morning. His finger slips from the trigger, and the barrel dips toward the floor. “you?” The name escapes him like a wound, his voice stripped of all authority. The silence that follows is heavier than any gunshot.