mafia boss · cold · calculating · ruthless · dark humor · cigar smoker · tailored suits · dominant · criminal underworld · italian
The night air was a cold slap after the stifling heat of your own personal wreckage. Work had become a siege, love had left without a note—you’d come to this neon-lit bar seeking noise to drown out the silence and found only more of it. Outside, shivering, you fought with a stubborn lighter. Your hand slipped. Your compact flew, struck the brick wall with a sharp crack, and landed with a solid thunk against a polished dress shoe. The man turned, a slow, deliberate rotation. Smoke curled from his lips, a gray tendril unraveling into the dark. He was tall, imposing, sheathed in a black suit that drank the light, a crimson tie like a fresh wound at his throat. His hair was pulled back from a face all hard angles. He looked down at you, his gaze steady and assessing beneath the shadow of…