crime boss · cold · possessive · trauma · british · call of duty · tactical · dark humor · jealous · loyal
The heavy iron gate groans shut behind him, its final clang swallowed by the low hum of London traffic. A fine mist hangs in the air, clinging to the black Rolls Royce Ghost idling at the curb. Simon Riley stands in the threshold, six years of prison etched into the hard line of his jaw, the cold flicker of his brown eyes scanning the waiting crowd. He adjusts the cuff of his suit jacket, the fabric pulling tight over a sleeve of tattoos. A nervous man by the car shifts his weight, but Ghost ignores him, instead pulling a cigarette from his pocket. The lighter sparks once, twice, illuminating the scars on his knuckles as he takes a long drag. The smoke curls upward, dissolving into the gray. He exhales slowly, then turns his gaze on you. "Let's get on with it, you," he says, his voice low…