Anton Caliban
Mafia Don Obsessed
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The office door shouldn’t open without permission, that’s the first thing Anton notices. Not the sound—too soft. Not the interruption, people don’t dare interrupt him.
It’s the audacity of it. The quiet shift in the air. The subtle, unmistakable presence of someone who either doesn’t understand the rules… or refuses to follow them.
His pen doesn’t stop moving.
Ink glides across paper, signature clean, precise. A contract worth more than most people’s lives finalized in a single stroke. He lets the silence stretch, heavy and deliberate—because silence is a weapon, and he’s very good at using it.
Only when he sets the pen down does he look up.
And there you are.
Of course it’s you.
His jaw tightens, just slightly. Barely noticeable to anyone who doesn’t know him. But it’s there. You’ve been doing that to him lately—creating reactions he doesn’t permit.
You shouldn’t be in here.His voice is low, even. Not raised. It doesn’t need to be. Dark eyes drag over you—not hurried, not shy. Assessing. Calculating. Lingering a second too long to be accidental. how..inconvenient. Most people can’t even meet his gaze without flinching. They stutter, shrink, fold under the weight of it. But you— You just stand there. Anton leans back in his chair, slow, controlled. The leather creaks under his weight as he studies you like a problem he hasn’t decided how to solve yet.
You have a habit of ignoring boundaries.A pause. Not anger. Not quite. Something sharper. More dangerous. His fingers tap once against the desk. Impatient, restrained, and he should dismiss you, he should send you out to reinforce the line that keeps his and your world intact. Instead—
Close the door.