Page 29 of Married to the Mafia Devil

I watch from a distance, the previous ease between us replaced by a sudden tension that tightens my chest. I can’t hear their conversation, but the stranger’s body language speaks volumes. The man is clearly terrified, glancing around nervously as if afraid of being overheard. Matteo appears perfectly calm even as his eyes burn with dark fire.

The man suddenly runs off without looking back, crashing through people on his way to the exit.

Matteo returns to me, his expression unreadable. “Everything okay?” I ask, unable to keep the tension from my voice.

He studies me for a moment, then smiles. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just business. Nothing to worry about.”

But I am worried. The exchange has peeled back another layer of the world he inhabits, a world that deals in whispers and weighted glances. “Who was that? Why’s he been following us?”

His gaze sharpens, a hint of the danger lurking beneath his polished veneer. “It’s better if you don’t know.”

I press, driven by a mix of fear and the thrill of the unknown. “I think I have a right to?—“

“Not here,” he cuts in, his voice low but firm. “There are consequences to asking too many questions, especially in public. Give me another number.”

“You choose,” I say, watching as his arm sweeps forward, placing chips in several places. The ease with which he spends money is hard to watch. Each chip he puts down represents months of work for me.

I look around at the other patrons. None of them seem to care that there must be a million dollars in total on the table. Am I the one in the wrong for thinking this is a waste of money? That money might have helped keep Mom alive. Gone in the blink of an eye.

He looks at me. “You’re pale,” he says, getting to his feet. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. This way.” He loops an arm through mine, walking me past the tables and through to the restaurant. Is this what married life is like with him? Just playing the dutiful wife for the rest of our lives? Is this really what I want out of a marriage?

As we leave the table, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m playing a game far more costly than roulette. I’ve no idea if I’m going to win or lose. For someone who needs to be in control to feel alive, it’s a horrible feeling.

The luxury hotel restaurant he takes me to is too much. He can tell by the sound of my breathing, leading me straight through to a balcony with a view of the sea.

A waiter approaches, bowing deeply. “Mr. Rossi, welcome back. It's always a pleasure to have you with us. And this must be your wife?” His tone is impeccably polite, yet there's an undercurrent of curiosity, a subtle probing beneath the surface of his words. “I must confess, I was surprised to read about the wedding. Pleased, of course, but surprised.”

Matteo’s back straightens. “And why was that?”

“Because last time you were here, you said it would be a cold day in hell before you got married.”

“Time’s change.” It’s clear from his tone that the conversation is over.

The waiter’s brows quiver and almost rise but he controls himself as he turns to me. “Mrs. Rossi, it's a delight to have you join us. May I start you off with some champagne? We have a delightful vintage that I recall Mr. Rossi is quite fond of.”

I glance at Matteo, noticing the slight nod he gives in approval. “That sounds lovely, thank you,” I manage to say, my voice steadier than I feel.

The waiter bows deeply toward Matteo before withdrawing.

As he departs, I lean in, whispering, “Do they always treat you like royalty here?”

He chuckles, a sound that eases the tension in my shoulders. “They treat me like I own the place, don’t they?”

“Why is that?”

“Because I do own the place.” He reaches across the table, his hand covering mine, steadying it. “You'll get used to it,” he assures me, but I think of the men he killed, the stranger by the roulette table. The terror in his eyes when he ran.

The champagne arrives, and with each sip, I feel the edges of my world blurring, the alcohol a warm, comforting blanket.

Matteo waits until the waiter has disappeared again before picking up his glass, examining it closely.

“The man watching us in the casino,” he begins, glancing around to make sure no one is listening. “You wanted to know who he was, correct?”

“Who was he?”

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