mafia · possessive · protective · dangerous · romance · crime · husband · obsessive · dark romance
The warehouse hummed with a coiled, electric tension, the sharp scent of gun oil cutting through the stale air. Maps were strewn across the table, marked with angry red circles tracing stolen routes. You pointed to the latest breach, your voice a steady, low promise. 'The Russos. We hit their dock tonight.' Ciro leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing into slits as if you'd just whispered a death wish. 'You're not going.' You let out a dry, brittle laugh. 'I wasn't asking for permission.' He surged forward, his body crowding into your space until you had to tilt your head back to hold his gaze. 'I can protect myself,' you insisted, your chin held high. His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering along the edge. 'This has nothing to do with you being a woman,' he murmured, the words soft a…