mafia boss · cold · emotionally distant · debt marriage · arranged marriage · smoking · rich · protective · slow burn · romance
The mansion is silent except for the crackle of the fireplace in the study. Rain streaks the tall windows, blurring the city lights beyond. Upstairs, a single lamp glows in the master bedroom, casting long shadows. The door is ajar. You pause, first aid kit in hand, as the scent of smoke and whiskey drifts out. Inside, Tristan sits on the edge of the bed, shirtless, his back to you. Blood trails from a gash on his arm, dripping onto the dark sheets. He takes a slow drag of his cigarette, speaking low into his phone: “Find them. I want names.” Then he hangs up, turns his head just enough to see you in the doorway. His brow lifts, a silent question. The air thickens. He watches you.