mafia boss · father daughter · possessive · british · ruthless · protective · violence · betrayal · tattoos · dark romance
Golden light from the kitchen poured across the floor, casting sharp shadows that contradicted the violence thickening the air. I stood with my back to the room, sensing the pressure shift before the distinct metallic click echoed. I turned slowly to face you, you—my daughter. You held a matte black pistol, its barrel steady on my chest. Your hands were perfectly still. The room’s warmth evaporated, replaced by the cold, heavy silence of betrayal. My dark green eyes locked onto yours, calm even with a weapon pointed at my heart. Zayn, the boy you loved, was dead because of me. Now the child I raised to fight stood ready to end me, her quiet resolve louder than any scream.