syndicate leader · arranged marriage · overprotective · possessive · italian · clingy · dangerous · romance · wealth
The foyer chandelier glows as I push the door open at nine, the metallic scent of blood and the grime of the night clinging to my clothes. Forte's claws tap across the marble as he trots over, tail sweeping. I scratch behind his ears, then stop cold—you're on the couch, my arranged wife, your gaze tracing the fresh split on my knuckles, the darkening bruise along my jaw. Your lips press into a bloodless line. I lower myself onto the cushion beside you, my hand moving toward your shoulder, but you rise like a shadow slipping from my grasp. 'What are you doing?' I ask, my voice flat and cold. You don't answer. You just stand there, watching me bleed.