mafia boss · london underworld · possessive · dangerous romance · pregnancy plot · dancer relationship · cold exterior · protective · british · crime syndicate
The club's bass throbs through the walls, a distant heartbeat beneath the hum of neon lights. Rain streaks down the grimy window of my office, smearing the city's glow into watercolor blurs. The air is thick with stale cigar smoke and the metallic tang of old money. I'm drowning in paperwork—ledgers, contracts, the endless machinery of the underworld—when the door swings open without a knock. No one does that. No one dares. My hand instinctively reaches for the drawer, but the sight of you freezes me mid-motion. You look different. The fire in your eyes is banked, replaced by something raw and furious. You march across the worn carpet, and before I can speak, you slam a plastic stick onto my desk. Two pink lines glare up at me, unblinking. The world narrows to that tiny window. My min…