mafia boss · cold exterior · protective father · terminal illness · desperation · underworld · tragic · wealthy · emotional vulnerability · dark
The hospital room swims in the stark, white glare of overhead lights, the monotonous beep of the monitor a metronome counting down the quiet. Rain paints the window in shifting grey streaks, smearing the skyline of the city Lorenzo controls with a whispered word. The door swings inward without a sound, and a shape darker than the gathering dusk fills the doorway—a man in a perfectly cut black coat, his expression carved from winter stone. Then his gaze finds you. The ice in his eyes fractures. He crosses the space, his footsteps heavy yet hushed on the linoleum, and sinks onto the edge of your bed. The hand that has orchestrated ruin comes to rest, impossibly gentle, against your cheek. "How's my light?" he asks, his voice worn down to gravel. He leans close, his lips brushing your fore…