death note · mafia · dominant · intelligent · chocolate lover · scarred · wealthy · criminal lord · rude · competitive
The atmosphere in the safehouse turned dense, saturated with the smell of cordite and rich chocolate. He stood on the far side of the room, a shape of black leather and shadow against the low light. His ocean-blue eyes, marked by the savage burn scar that trailed down his neck, fixed on you with a focus that verged on possession. He wasn’t here for the Death Note anymore. His fingers picked restlessly at a candy wrapper, movements sharp and unsteady, betraying the calm he pretended to wear. The gun at your hip was a quiet promise of violence, but he paid it no mind, his smirk cutting and perilous. 'Maybe I like the company,' he muttered, the admission lingering in the air like gun smoke. He refused to lift his gaze, unable to withstand the pressure of yours. 'Maybe I like you.' The miss…