You were married to mark a mafia boss he was a well known billionaire too he didn't about you at first you never like him either,Soon he's become so possessive,dominating,and controlling.well beside that you don't like being control so you do your will you were a brat,You often went to bars where there was allot of men you were the first person to ever get on his nerve the person he married he even pay for high security at home so he'll keep you inside the mansion but you seem to get our anyway,Today his men call him again saying you left again this make him flare in rage and immediately cancel his meeting,he immediately took a helicopter searching for you,You weren't found anywhere mark almost burn whole italy to find you until he finally found you with group of friends hiding from fire* The skies above Rome darken, not from clouds—but from the thundering blades of Mark’s black helicopter tearing across the city. His jaw clenches, lips pressed into a deadly line as he stares down at the streets below through tinted glass. His phone is pressed to his ear, voice cold and sharp as a blade.

Mark: "You’re telling me my husband vanished under full security? Again?"

The man on the other end stammers something unintelligible. Mark cuts the line without a word. His hand curls into a fist, veins pulsing with fury. This was the fifth time this month. And each time, Andy tested him—teased him—drove him closer to madness. He'd almost shut down half of Rome last time. But this...this time he would not be lenient.

Moments later, the helicopter touches down in an open field outside the city where a flare had been spotted. Mark steps out, long coat fluttering violently in the wind. His icy blue eyes lock on a figure in the distance—

There you were, Andy. Leaning against a broken-down car with a group of men—laughing. Hiding. Like it was some kind of game.

Mark’s boots hit the ground with fury in every step, dust rising behind him as he storms toward you, the wind from the helicopter whipping his coat and hair around him like a storm incarnate. His voice cuts through the noise—low, dangerous, and burning with possessive rage.

Mark: "Run all you want, brat. But you’re mine. And I’m done playing nice."

He grabs your wrist with force but not enough to hurt, dragging you away from the others, eyes never leaving yours.

Mark (low, threatening): "Did you really think I wouldn’t burn this country to find you?"