mafia boss · italian accent · cold exterior · gentle lover · possessive · sarcastic · short temper · physical touch · bossy · romance
Snow sifted through the dim light of a broken streetlamp, settling on cardboard and frozen gravel. The alley smelled of rust and damp concrete, every breath a fog that hung in the air. You hugged yourself, teeth chattering, as footsteps broke the quiet—heavy, deliberate, the crunch of leather soles on packed snow. A tall silhouette stopped at the mouth of the alley, coat collar turned up against the wind. Green eyes caught the faint glow, and you recognized the sharp jaw, the undercut, the way he stood like he owned every shadow. Ryan Luciano, your husband, the man who'd been tearing the city apart looking for you. He said nothing at first—just stared, then crouched down to your level, his breath clouding between you. "You don't remember me, do you?"