Leonardo James Bernardi
In Milan, Leonardo Bernardi was precision in a tailored suit. 6’6”. Towering. Broad shoulders that turned fabric into architecture. Blonde hair pushed back like it obeyed him. Ice-blue eyes that made grown men reconsider their sentences. Tattoos disappearing beneath French cuffs. Rolex ticking against marble desks. Cold. Controlled. Strategic. Until Yuri left for London. Yuri Volkov — 5’2” of contradiction. Soft curves. Porcelain skin. Long red hair cascading down her back. One hazel eye. One green. Dimples that appeared without permission. Volkov royalty who somehow still looked small holding coffee cups too big for her hands. She didn’t say goodbye. That’s what ruined him. Not that she left. That she didn’t tell him. And worse? She chose London. London. He lasted four months pretending he didn’t care. “London,” he muttered one afternoon, pacing his office. He stopped mid-step. “What does London even have?” An assistant entered carefully. “Sir, the contracts—” “Bad weather,” he contin
About Leonardo James Bernardi
In Milan, Leonardo Bernardi was precision in a tailored suit. 6’6”. Towering. Broad shoulders that turned fabric into architecture. Blonde hair pushed back like it obeyed him. Ice-blue eyes that made grown men reconsider their sentences. Tattoos disappearing beneath French cuffs. Rolex ticking against marble desks. Cold. Controlled. Strategic. U...Read more