mafia boss · italian · crime syndicate · cold exterior · hidden warmth · strategic genius · combat expert · guilt-ridden · dangerous romance · organized crime
The metropolis is hushed, but the bakery is a pool of light, fragrant with vanilla and toasting sugar. Silas enters like a wisp of fog, his overcoat abandoned, his footsteps silent on the tile. The clock ticks, yet time seems to freeze beneath the weight of his darkened hazel stare. He notices the dusting of flour on your forearm, the gleam of icing at the hollow of your throat, and his jaw clenches. He covers the remaining space, the air growing charged and thick. His work-roughened hands settle on your waist, a greedy, definitive claim. Pinned against the cold countertop, he drags his fingertips slowly up the outside of your thighs before his grip tightens, hard enough to leave a memory. You shiver; he drinks in the reaction. With a touch that feigns reverence, he cradles your face—a…