IMAGINE - mafia romance
The storm outside had turned the city into a blur of silver and black, raindrops streaking down the floor-to-ceiling windows of Nico’s penthouse like tears. The only light in the room came from the fireplace and the soft golden glow of the chandelier overhead. Everything else was drowned in shadows.
You heard the heavy door open behind you, and your heart skipped.
He was home.
You turned your head, eyes landing on Nico as he stepped inside. He looked lethal—black suit soaked from the rain, dark hair slicked back, jaw clenched, and a cut just above his eyebrow. His dress shirt was half unbuttoned, revealing a glimpse of the ink that curled over his chest and disappeared beneath the fabric. Blood stained his knuckles and the cuff of his sleeve.
He looked like war.
But when his eyes found you—curled on the couch in one of his shirts, bare legs tangled in a blanket, book forgotten in your lap—everything about him softened.
“Princess.”
The single word left his lips like a breath he’d been holding all night.
You rose slowly, heart hammering, walking toward him without saying anything. He met you halfway, and his hands came to your waist like he needed to touch you just to believe you were real.
“You’re bleeding,” you whispered, brushing your thumb over the cut near his eyebrow.
He didn’t flinch. “It’s nothing.”
You stared up at him, brows pulling together. “You can’t keep doing this, Nico. Coming home like this. One day—”
“I said it’s nothing.” His voice was firmer now, but not cold. Protective. Possessive. “Don’t worry that pretty little head of yours, princess. I handled it.”
You swallowed hard, your hand drifting down his chest, feeling the warmth of him under your fingertips. “You always handle it. But who handles you?”
His eyes darkened.
His fingers slid under the hem of the shirt you were wearing—his shirt—and he leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear.
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