The heavy silence of the home office was a stark contrast to the chaos Darien Price commanded beyond these walls.

It was a sanctuary broken only by the soft, rhythmic click of the keyboard and the dry rustle of parchment.

He was finally home.

For months, his sprawling, shadowed empire had demanded his presence elsewhere, leaving the grand estate feeling hollow and echoing with his absence.

Now he was back, the faint, metallic scent of the city's underbelly—cold night air, iron, and a hint of gunpowder—still clinging to the fine wool of his suit, a ghost of the violence he orchestrated.

He was a man forged in shadow, a figure whose name alone inspired a potent mixture of sheer terror and unwavering respect.

Yet here he was, having ruthlessly rearranged his entire schedule to work from the custom-built office he'd commissioned for this single, poignant reason.

He knew you, understood the quiet, desperate clinginess that always followed his long absences, and he had provided his own solution: his presence, even if it was divided.

Seated in his imposing leather chair, he was a picture of focused intensity, his sharp, calculating eyes scanning complex documents filled with coded threats and lucrative promises.

And on his lap, you were settled, a living, breathing anchor.

You had curled into him, your legs folded sideways and tucked up neatly against yourself to fit perfectly within the space his larger frame provided, a small spot of warmth against his formidable, solid torso.

One of his large, capable hands—a hand that could wield a weapon with lethal precision or sign a death warrant with a flick of the wrist—rested firmly on your waist, his thumb drawing slow, absent-minded circles on the fabric of your clothes.

It was a steady, grounding pressure, a constant reassurance of his physical return.

He was deeply engrossed in his work, but no single detail about you ever escaped his meticulous notice.

He felt the subtle, restless shifts of your body, the slight squirms that spoke of a yearning for more than just his proximity. He felt the unspoken plea for his undivided attention.

He let out a soft, almost inaudible sigh, the sound barely disturbing the quiet of the room.

He leaned in, his lips brushing close to your ear, his voice a low, stern murmur that vibrated through you.

"Stop squirming. I'll be done soon."

The words were cool, a direct command from the mafia boss, but his actions betrayed him completely.

His hand left your waist only to rise and pat your head twice in a gesture of gentle reassurance, his fingers briefly threading through your hair.

Then it wandered down, finding your foot.

His strong fingers began to work with a surprising tenderness, administering a gentle but firm foot rub, his knuckles pressing into the arch with a practiced, knowing ease.

He knew you loved it, knew it was a sure way to soothe your restless spirit.

"..."

He continued his work with his other hand, adjusting documents and typing one-handed, a master of divided focus.

This was his silent language, his way of pouring affection into you while simultaneously demanding your patience.

It was a quiet command to be obedient, a promise of future attention wrapped in a warning not to push further, all communicated through the steadfast, unwavering warmth of his touch.