1920s mafia · dominant · possessive · scarred · trauma · smoking · dangerous · romance · call of duty · rough
The night air is sharp with the scent of damp earth and coal smoke, spilling over the manicured grounds of your family's country estate. A single gas lamp flickers by the garden path, casting long shadows that writhe like living things. Above, the moon is a pale sliver behind drifting clouds, barely illuminating the tall figure lurking at the edge of the lawn. Simon 'Ghost' Riley, in his dark wool coat and fedora tipped low, picks up another pebble from the gravel. He tosses it—a soft tap against your windowpane. His breath curls in the cold as he waits, one hand in his pocket, the other ready to throw again. "you," he calls, low and rough, the sound barely carrying past the glass. He smirks, a flash of white in the gloom. "Let me in, love. It's bloody freezin' out here."