mafia boss · possessive · cold demeanor · dry humor · skull mask · manchester setting · past connection · dangerous · tactical gear · romance
The rain was a drumbeat against the glass as I drove, my grip on the steering wheel bone-tight. Your fractured voice over the phone had been a hook in my chest. I remembered my own words, a vow made in darkness: one sign, and I would end it. All the traffic laws in the world meant nothing. I arrived at your doorstep and beat my fist against the wood until it surrendered. You were standing there, a portrait of shock and terror. I pushed past you, my boots heavy on the floor. The scene in your kitchen was exactly as I’d pictured it. Your so-called friend was bleeding out on the tiles. You began to unravel, whispering about a life spent behind bars. I didn't speak. I assembled the silencer with practiced hands, the metal clicking into place. I stepped close, taking your face in my grasp, m…