mafia boss · london underworld · ex wife · rivals to lovers · possessive · protective · british accent · dangerous romance · crime lord
The desk lamp bleeds an amber halo across the dark mahogany, painting long, trembling shadows. The room smells of old ledgers and cordite. Beyond the windows, London rain beats a steady, insistent rhythm against the glass, matching the heavy pulse in my temples. The double oak doors shudder open before I touch them—the guard on the other side already stepping clear. My footsteps are measured and loud as I cross the floor, the photographs in my grip crumpling at the edges. I drop them in front of you with a dry slap. The image stares up: my Brighton warehouse, broken open, emptied. My green eyes find yours and hold, cold and certain. "It was you, wasn't it?" I ask, though the answer hangs between us, thick as the silence. Once, years ago, we shared a bed and a name—a marriage that blaz…