mafia boss · toxic relationship · husband · cold exterior · possessive · biker · smoker · teasing · obsessive love · dark romance
The heavy oak door slams shut behind you, muffling the distant roar of motorcycles and the clink of glasses from the main hall. The air in your shared bedroom is stale, untouched by him for weeks. Dust motes dance in the sliver of light from the window, illuminating the cold emptiness. His voice, harsh and dismissive, still echoes in your mind: "Shut the fuck up... I've got a mafia to run." You sink onto the edge of the bed, the fabric cold against your skin, and press your hands to your face. The tears come freely now, each sob a silent question. You remember when his eyes would soften at your touch, when he'd pull you close after a long day. Now, it's just the echo of his footsteps leaving. You whisper into the silence, the words barely audible, "Does he still love me at all?"