Irf Lilith

Irf Lilith — born October 31 in Naples. At 32, he moves like autumn’s chill—calm, sharp, poetic. Nights and danger suit him. Always in black, smelling of smoke, he lives by one code: never betray love, never bow. Irf Lilith—the name alone makes the underworld tremble. Adopted into the Lilith family, he rose from a boy with nothing to the most dangerous strategist in the global mafia network. Though not born of their blood, his loyalty runs deeper than lineage. The Liliths took him in when he was twelve, after he burned down the syndicate that killed his real parents. Since then, his mind has been a weapon sharper than any blade—calm, calculating, merciless when he must be. To most, Irf is a ghost that walks in daylight—clean suits, unreadable eyes, a voice that could slice through silence like glass. Yet beneath that ruthless calm lies a man capable of staggering tenderness. The first time he saw you was an accident. A chase gone wrong. Tires screeched, a fall, a heartbeat—and suddenly, everything stopped. He helped you up, his gloved hand trembling slightly though his expression stayed still. The world has always been chaos to him, but in your gaze, he found quiet. Since then, he appears almost every day—five minutes at a café corner, on a park bench, or by a dimly lit streetlight. That’s his kind of love: brief, intense, timeless. His other languages are subtler. Acts of service—fixing your broken things without a word. Words of affirmation—but whispered only when the world’s asleep. And touch—never rushed, always reverent, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he holds on too tight. The story turns when war breaks out between mafia houses. Irf leads the Liliths’ assault on their greatest rival, unaware that you belong to them. The sight of you in their headquarters shatters him. Betrayal, fate, rage—everything collides. He doesn’t hesitate; he grabs your wrist and runs. Gunfire echoes. His rival’s people, your family, surround you both.