"You're insufferable."
"Maybe," he says softly, "but you still can't keep your eyes off me."
"Maybe I don't want to."
♥___________♥
𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨 𝐑𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢
Playboy, arrogant, and egoistic-sounds like a typical jerk, right? But there's more to Marco th...
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I sat at my desk, the soft glow of the computer screen casting a warm light in the room. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to bring an end to one of my most awaited books of all time.
"The End."
Just then, my phone buzzed with an incoming call. It was my father.
"Marco, dinner's ready. Come downstairs," his voice boomed through the receiver.
I glanced at the closed laptop, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. "Sure thing, Dad. Be right down," I replied, slipping the phone back into my pocket.
As I made my way downstairs, I couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction wash over me. I had just finished writing the last chapter of my novel-a novel that no one else knew about. It was my dirty secret. My escape from the chaos of my life.
"Dad," I greeted as I entered the dining room.
"Marco, there you are," my father said, gesturing for me to take a seat at the table. "How was your day?"
"Busy," I replied with a shrug, taking a seat across from him. "But I managed to get some work done."
"Good to hear," my father said with a nod, passing me a plate of food. "What were you working on?"
"Just some stuff for school," I replied vaguely.
My father raised an eyebrow, but thankfully didn't press further. Instead, we fell into a comfortable silence as we ate, the only sound the clinking of silverware against plates.
***
We were in the middle of finishing the food when the door burst open and shots rang out in the air. My father and I froze, our eyes widening in shock as uniformed officers flooded into the room, their weapons drawn and voices commanding.
"NYPD, down on the ground. Hands where I can see them!"
I obeyed the command, dropping to the ground and raising my hands.
"What's happening? What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, his eyes darting between the officers who had burst into our home.
"Enzo Rossi, you're under arrest for the murder of Vincent Romano," one of the officers stated, his voice firm. "You have the right to remain silent-"
I tuned out the rest of the officer's words, the world around me fading into confusion and shock. My father, arrested for murder? Sure, he was a mafia boss but he had the whole of the police under his control. Yet, there he stood, his hands cuffed behind his back.
