Y/N and her 6'7 feet tall, alpha mafia boss
You didn’t even want to come tonight.
Now you’re gripping your water glass like you’re in a hostage situation.
Because across the restaurant, under the golden chandelier light, sits Y/N — looking soft, calm, glowing like she moisturizes with moonlight — and across from her…
…is a 6’7” wall of pure organized crime.
The man doesn’t sit in the chair.
The chair survives him.
Black suit. Broad shoulders. The kind of jawline that could cut diamonds and tax evasion charges. He hasn’t smiled once, yet the entire restaurant staff is moving like they’re defusing bombs.
A waiter drops a fork three tables away.
Meanwhile Y/N is just there like:
“So anyway, I like sunflowers :)”
Ma’am. That man has definitely threatened a government official before breakfast.
He leans forward slightly. Just slightly.
You swear you see two bodyguards pretending to read menus upside down. One of them scans the room like someone might challenge him to a duel with breadsticks.
He reaches across the table.
Did she forget to pay a debt? Is this where the violin music stops?
He gently moves a strand of hair out of her face.
The mafia boss.
Internationally feared.
Probably has enemies on three continents.
And he’s like:
“You had sauce on your cheek.”
The emotional whiplash. The danger. The tenderness. The fact that he could bench-press a car but is looking at her like she personally invented happiness.
But his eyes soften just a little.
And suddenly you realize—