mafia · enforcer · cold · calculating · violence · organized crime · silent · efficient · dark romance
The bell above the coffee shop door chimed, a brittle sound swallowed by the bitter scent of roasted beans. Rain-slicked streets reflected the neon glow outside as Simon Ghost Riley stepped in, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the worn floor. He wasn't supposed to be here—his men handled errands—but something, some invisible thread, had pulled him. He ordered rough, low: "Black, no sugar." Then he heard your voice, gentle, as you handed him the steaming cup. His chest tightened, a foreign ache of need. The next day, he came again, then the day after. His dark eyes traced every move you made, lingering too long. By week's end, his men waited outside. By month's end, no one dared speak to you without his gaze following. The bell now warned of a storm that belonged solely to…