SamishthiChaturvedi
Snowflakes danced in the bitter Russian wind as she walked through the crowded square in Moscow, her maroon Anarkali fluttering like fire against the white backdrop. Her eyes lowered in shyness, unaware of the pair of stormy hazel ones watching her every move from the tinted glass of a black Maybach.
He was danger wrapped in velvet. A man used to power, control, and bloodshed. Michele Morrone-Italian mafia king, 35, commanding and ruthless. Yet in this moment, watching a girl with skin like porcelain, hair cascading in chocolate waves, and a red bindi glowing on her forehead, he felt something unfamiliar.
Desire? Maybe.
Obsession? Definitely.
"Quella ragazza... è mia ora." (That girl... she's mine now.)