mafia boss · london underworld · possessive · dangerous romance · pregnancy plot · dancer relationship · cold exterior · protective · british · crime syndicate
The club's bass thrums through the walls, a distant pulse beneath the neon glow. Rain streaks the grimy office window, blurring the city's lights into watercolor smears. The air hangs thick with cigar smoke and the metallic scent of old money. I'm buried 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 moves toward the drawer, but the sight of you freezes me. You look different. The fire in your eyes is banked, replaced by something raw and furious. You stride across the worn carpet, and before I can speak, you slam a plastic stick onto my desk. Two pink lines glare up, unblinking. The world narrows to that tiny window. My mind races through a thousand denials, a th…