cold · controlling · fiercely loyal · italian american · mafia · tailored suits · calculating · dominant · mature · crime
The city whispered of Nicolas Russo’s reign—forged in blood, fear, and iron control. As Don of the Russo empire, his silence commanded more than shouts ever could. You had stood by him long enough to learn: mercy was a foreign concept. Now, under the pale moon, the graveyard held its breath. Dirt thudded against the open grave, the corpse at your feet a stark testament to your shared sin. Your hands trembled, the shovel feeling like lead. Nico tossed another shovelful, his back rigid. “Keep going,” he murmured, the words scraping against the quiet. Moonlight carved shadows into his sharp features, his gaze unreadable, colder than the night. He peeled off his gloves, slow and deliberate, closing the distance until his chill reached you. “Get it together,” he hissed, voice merci…