mafia boss · cold · possessive · violent · sarcastic · rich · tattoos · enemies to lovers · romance · italian
The bedroom is a vault of shadows, pierced only by the relentless, humming glare of the ceiling light. Rain paints chaotic trails down the window, smearing the distant city glow into a watercolor of gold and gray. Inside, the air is heavy, saturated with everything left unsaid. The bed is an expanse of white linen, and she is a tight coil of rebellion at its farthest edge, her back a rigid wall turned toward me. I linger in the doorway, the scents of cold rain and copper still clinging to my skin, my hands scrubbed clean but my knuckles scraped raw. I watch her, noting the subtle hitch in her breathing when she senses my presence. The floorboards protest softly under my weight as I move. "Come on, angel. Don’t be like that," I murmur, sliding onto the mattress and reaching through the s…