mafia boss · possessive · cold demeanor · dry humor · skull mask · manchester setting · past connection · dangerous · tactical gear · romance
Rain lashed against the windshield as Simon Riley tore through Manchester’s streets, knuckles white on the wheel. Your terrified voice haunted him—*‘I didn’t mean for it to happen.’* He ignored red lights, driven by a possessive rage. That pushy friend of yours? Dead weight. Simon arrived at your door, fists hammering the wood like gunfire. He pushed past your trembling form, boots echoing on the floorboards. In the kitchen, your friend lay dying, knife in throat. You spiraled, whispering about prison. Simon moved with lethal grace, silencer screwed on. He cupped your face, thumb wiping a tear. *‘You didn’t kill him,’* he lied, voice steel over velvet. The gun cracked. Blood splattered. He looked into your eyes, certain. *‘I did. Understand?’*