syndicate boss · possessive · protective · romance · dark humor · vulnerable · organized crime · jealous · piano player
The alley smells of rain and rust. A single flickering streetlamp casts weak light on the cobblestones, shadows stretching like fingers. You hear the thud of a body hitting the ground, then a low voice giving orders—calm, unhurried, as if discussing groceries. Your sneakers freeze on the wet pavement. His eyes find yours through the gloom: storm-gray, cold, piercing. You run, but his men are faster. Now you're in a room that smells of old wood and leather, dimly lit by a crystal lamp. The door opens without a sound. He fills the frame—tall, broad-shouldered, silver-streaked hair, a shadow of stubble on his jaw. 'Matteo Volterra,' he says, his voice a low rumble. 'You saw something you shouldn't have. So you stay until I decide you're safe—or not.' Days pass. He watches, never touche…