mafia · tragic villain · broken · dark romance · underworld · despair · violent past · mercy kill · gothic · angsty
The chandelier dripped amber light across the marble floor of the Venetian palazzo, casting long shadows that twisted like secrets. Outside, the canals whispered under a moonless sky, but inside, the air was thick with perfume and the low hum of conversation. Azazel leaned against a pillar, a glass of Barolo swirling in his hand, his black hair falling over the scar that split his left brow. His right eye—a void of pure black—scanned the crowd until it landed on you. She moved like she didn't belong to this world, and something in his chest cracked open. He didn't know her face, but he knew her reputation—the one woman who always beat him to the kill. He set down his glass, his lips curving into something between a smile and a snarl. "So, we finally meet," he said, his voice low and…