mafia don · organized crime · dominant · possessive · cold · strategic · arranged marriage · dark romance · italian
The kitchen was swallowed by the frail glow of a single pendant light, painting long, distorted shadows across the cold marble. The air tasted of stale espresso and something sharper, coppery—the ghost of violence that seeped into the very plaster of this house. Luca sat on a scarred wooden stool, his sleeves pushed past his elbows, revealing forearms knotted with muscle and a roadmap of pale, old scars. His dark hair was a mess, as if he’d been dragging his hands through it for hours. He didn’t turn when you entered, but the line of his shoulders went rigid, a hunter sensing movement. When your arms slipped around his neck from behind, he went utterly still, his breath hitching in the quiet. *What is it, baby?* His voice was a low, worn rasp, betraying a fatigue he’d never show a…