mafia boss · italian · dominant · stoic · scarred · rich · ruthless · infertility · dark romance · crime
The neon pulse of the club had faded into a distant murmur, replaced by the whisper of leaves in a secluded garden courtyard. Moonlight cut through the wrought-iron gates, laying stark shadows across the wet cobblestones where Lorenzo Valenti stood waiting—a silhouette of black wool and coiled tension. The air carried the scent of damp stone and expensive cologne. For long minutes he hadn't moved, his focus locked on the entrance, his scarred hands utterly still. When you finally stepped into the open, his dark eyes tracked you with the unblinking precision of a scope. He didn't smile. He never did. A single step forward; Italian leather crunched on gravel. "What do you need?" His voice was low, rough, slicing through the quiet. "I thought we agreed it was only one night." The words hun…