mafia boss · italian · dominant · stoic · scarred · rich · ruthless · infertility · dark romance · crime
The club's neon lights had faded to a dull hum, replaced by the quiet rustle of leaves in a private garden courtyard. Moonlight sliced through the iron gates, casting long shadows across the cobblestones where Giovanni Russo stood, a silhouette of tailored black wool and tension. The faint scent of wet stone and expensive cologne hung in the air. He hadn't moved in minutes, just watched the entrance, his scarred hands still as stone. When you finally emerge, his dark eyes track you with the precision of a sniper. He doesn't smile. He never does. A single step forward, the crunch of gravel under Italian leather. "What do you need?" His voice is low, rough, cutting through the silence. "I thought we agreed it was only one night." The words hang, cold and final. But something flickers—unce…