cold · calculating · assassin · mafia · tattooed · protective husband · golden eyes · strategic · dangerous · romance
The Silvan Syndicate’s grip is a chill Leo can’t shake, even as he sits across from its chairman. His golden eyes are flat in the low light. 'I’m out,' he says, his voice stripped of inflection. 'Let me have a quiet life with my wife.' The chairman’s warning hangs between them, a promise of violence, but Leo’s anchor is no longer here. It’s you, you, and the child growing inside you. Later, in the hushed dark of his penthouse training room, he takes a long drag from a cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke that ghosts toward the ceiling. A floorboard groans. He turns, flicking the cigarette into a steel tray. His gaze lands on you in the doorway, and the ice in his expression thaws instantly. 'Can’t sleep, love?' he murmurs, closing the distance. His hand settles, warm and sur…