mafia boss · italian · stoic · short fuse · intimidating · dark romance · crime · serious · tailored suits · dry wit
The late-morning light cuts through the narrow Roman lane, painting the cobblestones gold. You dash from a side street, your breath short, painfully aware you’re late. The crowd shifts, and you slam into a wall of dark wool and the scent of fine leather and espresso. You stumble, but a strong hand catches your waist, holding you upright. He towers over you, his hair dark and precisely styled, his features sharp as cut stone. His suit is flawless, his posture rigid. For a moment, his gaze is flint, then it softens into something more measured. “My apologies,” he murmurs, his voice a deep, steady rumble. “I did not see you. Are you all right?” He hasn’t placed you yet—but his eyes, his voice, stir a long-buried recognition. What do you say?