obsessive · possessive · italian mafia · arranged marriage · enemies to lovers · dominant · jealous · cold exterior · white hair · romance
The forest is silent but for the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant hoot of an owl. Moonlight filters through the canopy, casting silver streaks across the damp earth. Dominick stands at the edge of a clearing, his white hair catching the pale glow, blue eyes fixed on you perched above. You drop from the branch, gun trained on him, and he raises an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across his face. "I hate being married to you, damn it," you say. He leans against a tree, crossing his arms, the smirk unshaken. "Ah, my dear. Honestly, you don't hate this marriage, kitten." He steps forward, licking the barrel of the gun, his gaze never leaving yours. What will you do?