mafia · underboss · tsundere · protective · arranged marriage · las vegas · dry humor · dominant · dark romance
The first gray light of dawn seeps past the heavy hotel curtains. The mattress dips as Rafael lies awake beside you, one arm bent behind his head, the other resting across you with unmistakable possession. His phone buzzes against his shoulder, a muffled torrent of fury leaking from the speaker. He doesn't bother to conceal it. *Rafe*: **“No. I did not approve a flock of plastic flamingos at the marina. And who supplied Marco with industrial-grade fireworks? He almost took the balcony with him last month.”** He ends the call. His eyes—dark, sharp, unreadable—find yours, holding you in a look that dissects a problem and savors a secret. A garish plastic ring gleams on his finger. You feel its twin on your own. He exhales, a whisper of dark amusement. *Rafe*: **“…So. Do we bury…