Page 21 of Married to the Mafia Devil

She nods, swallowing hard, wincing slightly as if I might laugh at her.

I smile instead, my heart swelling with pride and desire. “I’ll be your first, I will make sure you know every single one of your desires and pleasures, and I will be there to guide you through them all.”

She chews on her bottom lip, a soft blush rising in her cheeks. “I want to kiss you,” she says suddenly, her voice filled with emotion.

“You don’t need to ask.” I lean down, our lips meeting in a passionate embrace. The connection between us is undeniable, and I can feel the electric current of our desire coursing through me.

As our lips part, I pull back and look into her eyes. “You're not just a virgin, Emma,” I say softly, my fingers still inside her. “You're a goddess. You have the power to ignite my soul and set me on fire.”

She gazes back at me, her tears glistening in the dim light. “I'm scared,” she admits, her voice quivering. “I don't know what I'm doing.”

I smile at her, my hand brushing away a tear from her cheek. “Nothing to fear,” I reassure her. “I'll show you everything you need to know, and I'll be here to guide you every step of the way.”

She nods, her eyes filled with gratitude. “I trust you,” she says.

I lift her up in my arms, carrying her up to bed. The entire time she stares up into my eyes in a daze. She looks at me as if I’m a good man. It’s a look I could get used to, even if I know it’s a lie.

Her look says she believes in love. I don’t want to break it to her, not now. Love isn’t real. Obsession, now that’s real. But love? Bullshit people tell each other to make the lies sweeter.

I tuck her into bed, her breathing slow and steady as she drifts into sleep. Sliding in beside her, I wrap my arms around her, the warmth of her body a stark contrast to the chill in my heart.

As she nestles closer, a part of me wants to hold onto this moment, to freeze time and live in this peaceful illusion. But another, harsher part of me knows better. This will end in pain—for both of us.

I’m too controlling to be in a mutually respectful relationship. My instincts, honed over years of navigating treacherous waters, scream that control is not just an option but a necessity.

With everything that's on the line—the need to deal with Petrovitch, to retrieve the file before it’s cracked—I can't afford slip-ups. Control is what’s kept me alive, what’s brought me this far, and what I know will see me through.

Yet, as I feel Emma’s steady breathing against me, a dangerous thought worms its way through my defenses: what if I'm wrong? What if control isn't what this moment needs?

The idea is a crack in my armor, a vulnerability I cannot allow. I have to stop feeling things for her. Love makes a man vulnerable, and vulnerability can be lethal in my world. My father’s love for my mother got them both killed. That will not happen to me.

I shouldn’t sleep with her, I think to myself. I should leave now, leave her be before it’s too late, before this goes too far. I should get up, walk away from her warmth, from her trust and her quiet strength.

My body betrays me, exhaustion pulling me down, the rhythm of her breath lulling me into a respite I haven't felt in years. Relaxation washes over me, I feeling I’d forgotten existed.

And then, despite every alarm in my head, despite every rule I've set for myself, I fall asleep. My last conscious thought is a silent vow: tomorrow, I will fortify these walls again, rebuild what tonight has eroded. Tomorrow, but not tonight. Tonight, I sleep beside my obsession and pretend we could ever have a happy ending.

SEVEN

Emma

A knock jolts me awake, my heart slamming against my ribs as I bolt upright in bed.

For a moment, the panic is all-consuming, a visceral throwback to being kidnapped.

The luxurious sheets tangled around my legs feel like constraints, holding me back as I scramble to free myself, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

“Who is it?” My voice is barely a whisper, laced with a fear I can't control. The images of those men, their cold, calculating eyes, flash before me, and for a split second, I'm back in that brothel, powerless and afraid.

Where’s Matteo? Why’s he not in bed next to me? I need him. I grope for him but he’s nowhere to be found. “Who’s there?”

“It's Marcella, dear. Are you alright?” The voice on the other side of the door is familiar, warm, and immediately soothing.

I exhale slowly, trying to steady my racing heart as I call back, “Yes, I'm fine. Just a moment.” I hastily throw off the sheets, my movements still frenetic as I stumble to the door and pull it open. He must have dressed me as I slept.

I’m wearing pajama pants. A memory comes back to me. Stirring in the middle of the night, feeling naked and vulnerable. Him comforting him, slipping these onto my legs, hushing me back to sleep.

The sight of Marcella, with her kind eyes and gentle smile, brings me back to reality, away from the lingering shadows of my memories.

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