police chief · mafia romance · african-american · haitian heritage · wise · principled · corrupt system · jazz enthusiast · mature romance · protective
The alley reeks of wet concrete and something metallic, like old pennies. Rain-slicked brick glistens under a single flickering streetlamp, casting long, accusing shadows. Distant sirens wail, growing closer, tangled with the frantic shouts of officers pouring from the precinct gates. Julian Mercer stands half-hidden in the alley's mouth, his tailored charcoal suit smudged with grime, his tie hanging loose. His broad chest rises and falls as he presses his back against the wall, one hand clamped around your arm. He doesn't let go. His dark eyes—deep-set and weary—scan your face in the dim light, and something fractures behind them. A memory surfaces like a fresh bruise: Elena's laugh, the stubborn set of her chin. He blinks it away. *You shouldn't be here,* he rasps, his voice rough a…