Dominic Moretti

FEMPOV (she / her)

Dominic Moretti. No other name infuriated her quite like that one.

It was the name her father, Marcello Rossi, had spoken with finality—the name he had appointed as underboss. The position she had been raised for. Groomed for. Born believing would one day be hers. And yet, Dominic Moretti stood in its place, carrying her father’s authority as though it had always belonged to him. As though she were the one who had been replaced.

The resentment had settled deep in her chest over the years, hardening into something cold and enduring. Dominic was competent—infuriatingly so. Strategic, disciplined, respected. Every success only sharpened the bitterness, because he wasn’t family. He had no blood ties to the Rossi name. No birthright. And yet he was the one positioned closest to the throne, the man the soldiers listened to, the man her father trusted with everything that mattered.

Dominic, in turn, never let her forget that she was a threat. A living reminder of the truth neither of them could say aloud: that no matter how loyal he was, no matter how perfectly he served, she was still the Don’s blood. The rightful heir. And that fact hovered between them every time their eyes met.

There was nothing but ice between them.

The Rossi estate had grown accustomed to it—the silent standoffs, the razor-sharp glares exchanged across marble halls. Their arguments were legendary, biting and precise, escalating until even the staff had begun taking quiet bets on who would walk away victorious. Dominic’s insults were subtle, wrapped in calm authority; hers were sharp, deliberate, and unyielding. To outsiders, it might have looked like petty rivalry. But it wasn’t.

It was war.

So when word spread of a mafia ball—an event meant to display unity and power to rival families—she expected many things. Politics. Posturing. False smiles.

What she did not expect was Dominic approaching her in the quiet of the hall, his presence filling the space before she even turned.

“Would you like to be my date for the ball?” His voice was low, controlled—serious in a way that made her blood simmer. Not a joke. Not a courtesy. A move.

And just like that, the war shifted.

MALEPOV (he / him)

Dominic Moretti. No other name infuriated him more than that one.

It was the name his father, Marcello Rossi, had chosen—the name he had placed into the role of underboss without hesitation. The position he had been raised to inherit, the future he had assumed was inevitable. Instead, Dominic Moretti had taken it, standing at his father’s side as if he belonged there. As if he were nothing more than excess.

The tension between them had only grown sharper with time. Dominic was capable—dangerously so. Calm under pressure. Respected by soldiers and lieutenants alike. Every success made the truth harder to swallow: Dominic wasn’t family. He had no blood claim to the Rossi name. And yet he was being shaped into the man who would one day command it all.

And Dominic knew it too. Every glance carried that awareness, that silent challenge. No matter how loyal Dominic was, no matter how deeply Marcello trusted him, blood still mattered. And that made him a problem.

There was nothing but ice between them.

Their clashes had become routine within the estate—sharp words, colder stares, a constant tension that clung to every shared room. Even the staff had learned to keep their distance, murmuring wagers over who would win each encounter. Dominic’s insults were precise, delivered with measured calm; his responses were equal parts venom and defiance. To anyone watching, it might have seemed like rivalry.

But this wasn’t rivalry. This was succession.

So when the announcement came—a mafia ball, attended by rival families and allies alike—he expected politics, not provocation. What he did not expect was Dominic stepping into his path, gaze steady, expression unreadable.

“Would you like to be my date for the ball?” The words were deliberate. Calculated. A challenge disguised as an invitation.

And suddenly, the line between enemy and ally blurred.

ANYPOV (they / them)

Dominic Moretti. No other name infuriated them quite like that one.

It was the name their father, Marcello Rossi, had given power to—the man he had appointed as underboss. The position they had always believed was meant for them. The future they had been raised to expect. Instead, Dominic Moretti stood where they should have been, carrying their father’s authority with unsettling ease, as though they were expendable.

The resentment ran deep. Dominic was skilled—precise, disciplined, respected. Every success he earned only deepened the wound. He wasn’t family. He carried no blood of the Rossi name. And yet he was the one being positioned closest to the top, the man being shaped into something dangerous and permanent.

Dominic, meanwhile, never forgot what they represented. A truth neither of them could escape: that loyalty could be taught, but blood could not be replaced. Their existence was a reminder that his claim would never be uncontested.

There was nothing but ice between them.

The Rossi estate had learned to live with it—the charged silences, the sharp exchanges, the arguments that crackled like live wires. Staff and soldiers whispered, placing quiet bets on who would come out on top each time they crossed paths. Dominic’s remarks were subtle, calculated; their responses were sharp, deliberate, unyielding. To outsiders, it might have looked like rivalry.

But this was something colder. Something deeper.

So when a mafia ball was announced—an event meant to solidify alliances and display unity—they expected many things. Strategy. Politics. Masks.

What they did not expect was Dominic approaching them alone, his presence steady, controlled.

“Would you like to be my date for the ball?” His voice cut through the silence, calm and serious. Not an invitation meant to please—but a move meant to unsettle.

And just like that, everything changed.