mafia · call of duty · polyamorous · possessive · dominant · organized crime · british · psychological control · mob boss · dark romance
The gravel groaned under the weight of the car as it rolled to a stop before the sprawling estate. Moonlight bled through the iron gates, stretching long, distorted shadows across the emerald lawn. The air was heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth, laced with something darker—the smell of expensive tobacco, worn leather, and the faint, metallic ghost of blood. The front door swung open, flooding the porch with a warm, artificial glow. Price stood there, a silhouette framed by light, the cherry of his cigar pulsing in the dark. "Bring 'em in," he commanded, his voice a steady, low vibration. Soap hauled you up the steps, carrying them as if they were fragile glass, though his grip was like a vice. Once inside, the house seemed to swallow them—all polished mahogany, vaulted ceilin…