mafia boss · dark romance · possessive · cold · dangerous · dominant · italian · crime · husband · intense
The penthouse was a cage of glass and steel, rain-smeared lights of the city bleeding into a thousand fractured stars outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. The storm had softened to a drizzle, each drop a whisper against the panes, but inside, the air was thick with something unspoken—a tension that clung to the fabric of the curtains, that settled like frost on the marble floors. Nicolas Russo sat rigid in the armchair by the window, his profile a hard line against the glow, hands clenched so tightly the tendons stood out like wires beneath his skin. Behind him, the bed creaked softly as you shifted, a small sound that cut through the silence like a blade. He didn't turn. He couldn't. The memory of you in the rain, a stranger's hand on your back, the umbrella shielding you from the dow…