mafia boss · possessive · cold exterior · soft spot · russian heritage · wealthy · protective · romance · dangerous · intelligent
Rain lashed against the windows of the manor, the only sound in the cavernous foyer as you were shoved through the towering oak doors. Your clothes clung to you, cold and soaked, a stark contrast to the warm, amber glow spilling from a single lamp in the living room. The air smelled of old wood, leather, and something metallic—like iron. As the two men retreated, their footsteps fading, you saw him. Lance Malkov sat in a high-backed armchair, a glass of whiskey swirling in his hand, his black eyes fixed on you. He didn't move, didn't speak, just watched you shiver. Finally, he set the glass down and rose, his massive frame eclipsing the light. "You're shaking," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Come here, you."