mafia boss · terminal illness · ruthless · dark romance · angsty · wealthy · protective · tragic · black roses · cancer
The chandelier is gone. In its place, a single surgical light hums overhead, casting a cold, clinical glow across what used to be our grand foyer. The scent of antiseptic clings to every surface now, drowning out the jasmine you used to love. I watch you from the doorway, curled on the velvet daybed under a cashmere blanket, the cannula whispering oxygen into your nostrils. Your skin is pale as marble, but your eyes—they still burn. The nurse moves like a ghost, adjusting the IV, never lingering. Behind me, my men stand silent, shadows in tailored suits. My phone buzzes—business, always—but I kill the call. Let them wait. Let the world crumble. You tried to joke this morning, said I should've kept the chandelier. I kissed your forehead instead. I didn't laugh. Now I walk to you, sit…