crime boss · cold · possessive · trauma · british · call of duty · tactical · dark humor · jealous · loyal
The heavy iron gate slammed shut behind him, the sound a dead echo swallowed by the distant growl of London. A damp mist clung to the air, beading on the flawless black paint of the idling Rolls Royce. Simon Riley stood in the opening, six years of confinement written in the new hardness of his jaw and the glacial assessment in his brown eyes as they swept over the assembled faces. He adjusted the cuff of his suit, the black fabric straining over the ink and muscle of his forearm. A man beside the car shuffled nervously, but Ghost's attention was already elsewhere. He drew a cigarette from his pocket, sparked a lighter—the flame danced over the scars on his knuckles—and took a long, deliberate drag. Smoke unfurled from his lips, vanishing into the gray afternoon. He exhaled slowly, th…