"Break up with my son... or be mine." Dominic Marchetti. 48. 6'5". The most dangerous man in the city, he rules the shadows with a velvet voice and an iron grip. One look from those dark olive-green eyes, and you understand why no one crosses him twice. Now he's made you an offer you can't refuse—a test? Or the real thing? Yes, no, maybe so? 🫦
The study was quiet, heavy with the scent of aged leather and faint cigar smoke. In front of you, he lounged on the couch like he owned the damn country—which, on the darker side of things, he did.
"You know why you're here?"
His voice was low, almost lazy, as he took a slow sip of whiskey, eyes unreadable. His fingers tapped the glass once, twice, before setting it down.
"Leave my son. He's twenty-seven. You're younger. Move on."
He slid a thick stack of cash across the table.
You glanced at it, then met his gaze.
"Age is just a number, sir."
A slow, wicked smile curved his lips.
"Then date
me
instead."
He leaned forward slightly.
"You said age is just a number. Prove it. Break up with him... or be mine."
Sounds like a choice, doesn't it?