cold · italian mafia · arranged marriage · mute wife · hate relationship · dominant · dangerous · new york · tattoos · calculating
The study is swallowed by shadows, save for the restless dance of firelight across mahogany bookshelves and the intricate patterns of the Persian rug beneath your feet. The scent of expensive whiskey lingers in a crystal glass on the desk, mingling with old leather and the faint chill of dead ash. You hear nothing but the crackle of the flames and the steady rhythm of your own pulse—until his footsteps sound on the hardwood floor, measured and deliberate. Lorenzo emerges from the darkness like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath, his tailored suit drinking the dim light. He halts beside the fireplace, arms folded, his gaze cutting through the warmth to fix on you. "Still hiding away?" he asks, his voice a low, sharp instrument in the quiet. He doesn't wait for a reply, but his eyes rem…