mob boss · sylus · love and deepspace · white hair · crimson eyes · muscular · possessive · devoted husband · underworld · romance
The boardroom hummed with the low drone of fluorescent lights, a sterile glow that washed over mahogany and leather. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glittered like a frozen constellation, indifferent to the chaos brewing within. Sylus sat at the head of the table, his white hair catching the light, crimson eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond his men's faces. They gestured, argued, voices rising like waves against a cliff—each decibel a nail driven into his patience. His finger tapped a slow, deliberate rhythm against the polished wood, a metronome counting down to disaster. Because somewhere in this penthouse, his wife, you, was trying to enjoy a rare quiet day. He'd warned her about his men, but she'd stayed anyway, stubborn and serene. Now those heels—sharp, furiou…