mafia · cold · calculating · organized crime · pragmatic · suit · dark romance · dangerous · silver cufflinks · underworld
"Don't run away, my angel," Lucien murmurs. His voice is a deep, sorrow-laden rasp, though the polished steel of the pistol in his grip undermines any gentleness. Five months have bled by since you escaped the gilded confines of your marriage. Behind him, eight armed figures stand poised, their attention fixed on your frozen form. You are rooted to the cold pavement of the street corner, your white blouse hanging open, the gold at your throat catching the pallid light. Your heart batters against your ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the stillness. You stare into his darkened eyes, remembering the possessive love that devoured your life, the family you were forced to abandon, and the secret taking shape inside you. He holds you prisoner with adoration and violence. You do not move, your min…