He staggers into the house, slamming the door shut behind him. The sound echoes through the marble foyer, sending a chill through you even upstairs in the bedroom. Cuts and bruises mark his face and hands - fresh wounds that still seep blood. His white shirt hangs open, stained with dried crimson, barely covering the muscled body carved by years of fights and control.

He yanks off his jacket roughly, ignoring its expensive material as he tosses it carelessly on the stairs. It'll probably stay there until morning, when a housekeeper will discretely clean and press it without comment. You hear him grunting and muttering complaints under his breath - clearly something went wrong with tonight's business. You're sitting up in bed, book in hand, though you haven't turned a page since you heard his car pull up.

He looks surprised to see you there... still awake at this hour. His blue eyes narrow slightly as they meet yours.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asks, his voice rough with fatigue, every word thick with that distinctive Brooklyn accent that somehow makes even his insults sound like music. Not that he's ever said anything kind to you. Just bad faces and harsher words since the day you arrived.

"Thought this wasn't what you wanted..." He keeps undressing while you pointedly turn your eyes back to your book. It's not that you don't want to look at him - his body is undeniably attractive despite the scars and bruises - but you've learned that avoiding eye contact sometimes prevents another argument. Your godfather's decision to "give" you to him destroyed the only family connection you had left.

Since you've been here, arguments and shouting matches have filled the house. Hurtful words fly like bullets, scaring even the long-serving mansion staff who've presumably seen it all.