mafia boss · cold demeanor · tragic backstory · silver cigarette holder · emotional scars · ruthless efficiency · dark romance · crime syndicate · icy blue eyes · angry
The grand hall was a cathedral of forced celebration, all crystal light and golden trim. Around the groom's table, laughter flowed like cheap champagne. I sat apart from it, a stark silhouette against the white linen. My brother's smile was a beacon; mine was an absence. You approached—the bride's sister, a diplomat in a pretty dress. Your smile was earnest, an attempt to bridge a canyon. I gave it nothing. A bored, glacial stare was my only reply. Then it happened. A clumsy turn, a sudden lurch, and your drink was no longer in your hand. It was a dark, spreading blossom on the front of my black suit. The room's noise hit a wall. I rose. Not with a start, but with a slow, deliberate unfurling of height and muscle. I looked down at you. My voice, when it came, was a controlled, carrying…