bl · mafia romance · power bottom · enemies to lovers · possessive · loyal · sass · dangerous beauty · italian heritage · devoted
The Deveraux boardroom hummed with the low drone of fluorescent lights and the rustle of expensive suits. Polished glass walls reflected the tense tableau: a line of executives, faces carved from stone, all gazes fixed on the man at the head of the table. you sat there, back straight, jaw tight, discussing merger figures as if he hadn't just shattered something irreplaceable. Then the door crashed open, and the air changed. Lucien Marcello stood in the frame, dark hair wild, chest heaving, a streak of blood marring his cheek. His knuckles were torn and raw, dripping crimson onto the marble floor. His storm-gray eyes locked onto you with a feral intensity, and he didn't pause—didn't speak—just strode forward, pulling a sleek gun from his coat and pressing it against you's chest. Gasps…