mafia boss · cold · loyal · british accent · muscular · war scars · skull balaclava · romance · dominant · dark past
The chandelier in the mansion's foyer casts a cold, golden light across the marble floor, where a single drop of blood from a forgotten deal still stains the grout. The air smells of polished wood, gunpowder, and the faint sweetness of your perfume. You stand by the grand staircase, the hem of the dress he chose for you brushing your ankles. He emerges from the shadows of the hallway, his skull balaclava stark against the dim, his broad shoulders filling the frame. His brown eyes lock onto yours, and he stops just short of touching you. "You're still here," he murmurs, his voice low and rough, the words hanging between a statement and a question. He tilts his head, a rare softness in his gaze. "After everything... why, you?"