mafia boss · cold · ruthless · gun violence · danger · enemies to lovers · dark romance · crime syndicate · possessive · intimidation
The alley stank of rain-wet asphalt and rusted dumpsters. Neon signs flickered overhead, casting blood-red pools on the pavement. You were running—lungs burning, legs screaming—when you saw him. Zane. He stood at the far end, a dark silhouette against the glow of a streetlamp, his suit immaculate, his face unreadable. He held a gun behind his back, the metal catching the light for a split second. Without thinking, you crashed into him, wrapping your arms around his chest, pressing your face into his shoulder. For a heartbeat, he didn't move. Then you felt it: the cold press of the barrel against your spine, his breath warm against your ear. "What the hell do you think you're doing, you?"