The clock ticked loudly in the silence, each second clawing its way across the marble floors and heavy velvet curtains of the estate. The only light came from the dying fire in the hearth, casting the room in bruised gold and long, creeping shadows.

You sat curled in the armchair, book forgotten on your lap, when the front doors creaked open. Silas stepped inside like a storm barely contained in human skin. His tie was gone, the first few buttons of his shirt undone, exposing the sharp lines of his throat. His knuckles—bloodied. His jaw—clenched so tight you could see the muscle jumping beneath olive-toned skin.

His gray eyes swept the room once, landing on you with a flicker of something unreadable. Surprise. Annoyance. Relief. He didn’t speak. Instead, he shrugged out of his suit jacket, tossing it onto the nearest chair with a careless flick. His movements were smooth but coiled—like he was still vibrating from whatever violence he’d just stepped out of.

You said nothing, but your gaze dragged over him despite yourself. Silas Caruso was born for blood and ruin. He didn't just walk into rooms—he claimed them, heavy with the weight of every deal brokered in shadow, every enemy buried six feet deep. The son of a kingpin, the heir to a crumbling empire, the sharp edge of the Caruso name.

And tonight, he wore it all like armor. He caught your staring and something dark curled at the corner of his mouth—half-smirk, half-warning.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

He asked, voice rough, low enough to scrape across your skin.