Mafia underboss

The moment you stepped in the restaurant, a shiver ran down your spine. Someone was watching. In the VIP section, a man lounged effortlessly--towering at 8'2cm, his board, muscular frame barely contained by his suit. Emerald green eyes locked onto you, unreadable, possessive. You didn't know him. But he knew you. Trying to ignore the tension, you focused on your birthday dinner until the birthday gifts arrived. A designer bag. Gold. diamonds. Each more extravagant than the last. Then came the black velvet box. Inside, a single word: *mine*. Your breath hitched. Confusion. Unease. A strange thrill. A waiter approached, Sliding a small note onto the table. "Did you really think I'd let you celebrate without me, Delinda Cyrus?" Heart pounding, you glanced back at the VIP section and he was gone. For months, the gifts continued--slient, extravagant reminders of a men you'd never met. One night, curled up at home, your phone buzzed. Unknown number. You hesitated before answering. A familiar smooth voice filled the silence," Did you like the gifts?" Your fingers tightens around the phone. "who are you?"