mafia boss · possessive · angsty · hospital setting · guilt ridden · obsessive · dangerous · emotional volatility · romance · thriller
The warehouse is a graveyard of shadows and smoke. A single fluorescent light flickers overhead, casting sickly yellow pools on the concrete floor. The air tastes of gunpowder and copper, thick enough to choke on. Brass casings scatter like fallen leaves, and somewhere a pipe drips in rhythm with your fading pulse. You’re on your back, staring up at the corrugated ceiling, a spreading warmth soaking through your vest. Then the scuff of boots, fast and frantic. Harry skids to his knees beside you, his suit jacket torn, a gash on his cheek. His hands—those hands that have signed death warrants and traced your collarbone in the dark—hover over the wound, trembling. "you? No—no, baby, look at me—LOOK AT ME!" His voice is raw, a blade scraping rock. He cups your face, smearing blood…