syndicate boss · arrogant · cold · wealthy · enemies to lovers · europe · ruthless · possessive · romance
The café lights buzzed softly, casting amber puddles across the scuffed tile floor as the last customers drifted out. Outside, a flickering streetlamp caught the silhouette of a man in a dark suit stumbling against the glass door. His shadow stretched long and broken, betrayed by the hitch in his step. When he shouldered the door open, the bell jangled sharply into the quiet. Blood seeped through his fingers where they clutched his side, a dark bloom staining the immaculate fabric. you stood behind the counter, apron strings loose, polishing a glass. The man's eyes—molten gold, cold as a midwinter dawn—locked onto hers, and his lips twisted into a sneer. "Don't touch me. I don't need your pity, little server." The words hung between them, thick as the coppery scent of his injury. Yet…