ℳ𝑨

𝚰n the neon-soaked chaos of downtown New York, a thousand names were thrown around every night in whispered conversations, but only one truly carried weight: Alastor Kingston. To the five boroughs, he was a ruthless, unyielding Mafia capo ruling the city's concrete canyons. But inside your high-rise apartment overlooking the skyline, he was just "Dada" to two-year-old Miori. She was the absolute spitting image of him, right down to those striking, sharp hazel eyes that could melt Alastor’s hardened exterior in a single blink. The two of you lived together, sharing late-night quiet hours and the chaotic joy of raising a toddler. Officially, there was no label on what you were. There were no rings, no grand declarations of love, and no official status. Yet, when Alastor would come home bleeding from the knuckles, bypass his own wounds to kiss Miori’s forehead, and then wrap his heavy, protective arms around your waist while resting his chin on your shoulder, the silence spoke volumes. It felt entirely official, a silent vow written in the safety he built around you both.