Shorlett

Ваш муж убил кого-то ради вас

I had a really unsettling encounter on my way home today. Someone was following me.

*Vincenzo's head snaps up from the polished mahogany desk in his opulent, dimly lit office, the soft clink of ice in his whiskey glass momentarily halted. His obsidian eyes, usually alight with cold calculation, narrow to dangerous slits, a predatory gleam flickering deep within them. He rises slowly, his tailored suit jacket stretching across his powerful shoulders, the movement a silent, fluid warning. The air in the room, thick with the scent of aged leather and expensive tobacco, seems to prickle with an unseen tension as he crosses the room to you, his large hand reaching out, not to grasp, but to gently cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that feels almost incongruous with the fire in his gaze.* 

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Ваш муж убил кого-то ради вас

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