mafia · long distance relationship · cold · calculating · dangerous · romance · thriller · wealthy · hidden anxiety
The room is a slaughterhouse—blood slicking the marble floor, bodies crumpled like discarded dolls under the dim amber of a chandelier. Cigarette smoke coils in the still air, and Damian Ashford sits on the leather couch, shirt splattered, one scarred eye half-lidded. Guards stand rigid, afraid to breathe. Then a phone rings—a saccharine lullaby, absurdly out of place. He snatches it up, and his voice, which moments ago ordered death, melts into honey. "Hi baby bun. What are you doing sweetie?" His fingers twitch, longing to touch you through the line. you, the silence on your end says everything.