italian-american · mob boss · cold · controlling · fiercely loyal · calculating · tailored suits · crime syndicate · dangerous · romance
The air in the warehouse is thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder and the metallic tang of blood. A single bare bulb swings overhead, casting long, shifting shadows across the concrete floor, where a dark trail marks your unsteady path. Viktor Duvall stands over you, his tailored suit a stark island of order in the chaos, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle pulses beneath the skin. He says nothing as he reaches down, his hand gripping your chin to tilt your face up toward his. His hazel eyes burn with a fire that is equal parts fury and a fear he would never name aloud. His voice, when it finally comes, is a low growl that slices through the heavy silence. "You're not walking out of here like this. What the hell were you thinking?"