A Dark Marriage Mafia Romance
A FIGHT FOR LOVE. A WAR FOR VENGEANCE.
A forceful encounter leaves a cataclysmic enforcer, 𝗔𝗿𝗮𝗯𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗮, under the thumb of the FBI. She is installed in an impossible position, forcing her to lie and deceit powerf...
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"I need you two to relax," Alice suggests, camera to her eye. "You both look as taught as a bow. And smile..." a flash of light. A sigh. She lowers the camera. "—okay. This isn't working."
We've been at this for forty devastatingly-long minutes, and already, I want to choke the life out of her.
Look at the camera. No, no! You both need to look at each other. Look at the sun splitting between the tree line. Ms Castillo, could you look any less enthusiastic? Ms Castillo, please, try to smile.
My patience is barely hanging by a thread—seconds away from losing my temper if she states the damn obvious of how this isn't working again. I have managed to conceal my temper under different forms of torture, and yet, this is what makes me crack? Pathetic.
Alice finally walks over, instructing us in different angles and poses.
Rowan stands at my side. Body angled towards me, his hand tightly gripped on the rope next to the side of my head. Alice asks if I can shift my legs until I'm angled and facing him, my hands also finding refuge on the white rope.
I stare at the skyline over his shoulder.
"Mr De Rossi. Ms Castillo. I need you to look at each other," Alice orders again before the first click of the camera meets my ears.
I slowly drag my gaze to meet his, almost startled to see Rowan's already on mine. Two clicks of the camera before I look away again. "Perfect! These are beautiful. Let's have the groom sit on the swing and the bride on his lap."
I whip my head in her direction, her focus already on the screen on the camera, checking the fresh photos.
"That's not necessarily." I say the same time as Rowan snaps, "Absolutely not."
She finally glances up and between us, as if not entirely sure what to do. As if she were dealing with two children who managed to continually disappoint her, never listening to what was instructed of them.
I send a glare to Rowan, letting him know my rage. This is entirely his fault we're here—taking orders, posing over and over again, and in the damn cold. After all, he hired her.
The dead look he returns tells me he couldn't give a fuck what I thought.
We haven't uttered a word to each other since he caught my wrist and caged my finger with a ring. Not that I'm complaining, his silence is probably the very reason I haven't completely lost my temper yet.
Hints of a cold winter threaten in the autumn wind as it continues to bite at my skin with each soft gust, the morning sun doing nothing to warm my skin. I grip the sides of my cloak, wrap it around me and glance at Rowan, whom is apparently impervious to the biting cold as he stands without his suit jacket, in a tight black shirt, few buttons undone at the top.
