Page 37 of Married to the Mafia Devil

I nod, taking a moment to process his words. “What about us? Have you thought about what happens next?”

He's silent for a beat, considering his words carefully. “The deal is the priority. Everything else follows from that. But regarding us,” he adds, choosing his words, “that's up to you. You have the decision to make as we agreed. You told me you wanted to stay.”

He reaches over, his hand finding mine, a gesture that bridges the distance between us. It’s like he can tell the doubts are building in me. “Whatever you decide, I'll respect it. But know this,” he says, pulling over to face me fully, “if you choose to stay, I will be in control. That's the only way I know how to operate.”

His admission sends a ripple of fear through me, a stark reminder of my own misbelief that I must remain in control to protect myself, to prevent the past from repeating. “I need to maintain some semblance of control over my life,” I say, my voice tinged with desperation. “I need a new job.” I feel panic rising in me at the pressures waiting for me back in New York. “I need to take care of my sister.”

He smiles, a softening around his eyes that I've come to associate with the moments of genuine connection between us. “Didn’t I say? I've found a place for you and your sister. It's safer, nicer, and rent-free. I was just waiting for her to make enough progress to mention it. She's almost ready to leave the apartment now, isn't she? Her therapist told me how well she did this morning. All the way to the stairwell. You should be proud.”

His offer, so generously given, clashes with my ingrained need for independence. “Do I have any say in this?” My response is sharper than intended, a knee-jerk reaction to the perceived encroachment on my autonomy.

He pulls out his phone, showing me photos of the new place, its location pin-marked on a map. Despite my reservations, I can't deny the perfection of the arrangement, the thoughtfulness behind his actions. “And it’s yours,” he adds, as if reading my mind, “whatever decision you make.”

It's overwhelming, his ability to address concerns I haven't even voiced, to provide solutions that strip away the burdens I've carried for so long. Yet, it's also terrifying—the idea of him taking over, of losing my hard-won control over my life's direction.

“Do I have any say in this?” I repeat, needing to hear his reassurance, to understand the boundaries of this new dynamic he's proposing.

“Yes, you do. This is just an option. A choice,” he says, his voice gentle, coaxing me to see the possibilities rather than the constraints. “You want somewhere else, you choose. Just make sure it’s near a college so you can study and look after your sister.”

As we drive on, the airport drawing nearer with every mile, I'm torn between gratitude and fear, between the desire to embrace the future he's offering and the terror of losing myself in the process. It's a crossroads, one that demands a choice not just about where I live or how I manage my finances, but about who I want to be—and whether I'm brave enough to trust someone else with the control I've clung to for so long.

I’m still unsure when we’re seated on the private jet. Settled into the plush comfort of the plane's seats, the dim lighting and soft hum of the engines create an intimate cocoon. The earlier conversation in the car lingers like a shadow, coloring our interactions.

He breaks the silence first, his voice low, “You've been quiet since we left the car. What's on your mind?”

I hesitate, searching for the right words to bridge the gap between us. “I'm just thinking about everything. Us, my sister, my father, the future,” I confess, the uncertainty making my voice tremble. “Everything.”

He turns to me, his gaze intense and searching. “And what have you decided? About us, I mean.” There's a hint of vulnerability in his question, a crack in the façade of control he always seems to wield so effortlessly.

“I don't know,” I admit, feeling the weight of his expectation. “Part of me wants to stay, to see where this goes. But another part is scared of losing myself, of losing the control I've worked so hard to maintain.”

A muscle twitches in his jaw, a visible sign of his frustration. “I told you, I'll respect your decision. But I can't change who I am. How I operate is the reason my world is secure. If you stay, I need to maintain control, for both our sakes.”

His words sting, a reminder of the fundamental difference in how we view the world. “But what if I need that control too? What if giving it up means losing a part of myself?”

He leans in, his lips brushing against mine in a kiss that's meant to soothe, to reassure. It's gentle and I should love it but it just feels like a distraction.

As we pull apart, he whispers against my lips, “Just give me one more week. The deal goes through, I can relax and think about this properly. A lot of peoples' jobs depend on this deal. We’re talking a billion dollars, years of my life have gone into preparing for this.”

“And you don’t want Petrovitch to ruin it, I know.”

“I won’t let him, trust me.”

That’s the thing I’m no longer sure about. Can I trust him to be the man I know he can be? Or is he forever doomed to be the man he thinks he has to be?

SIXTEEN

Matteo

Two days later…

Navigating through the cluttered streets of the deteriorating neighborhood, I pull up to Mark's building. It's late morning, the city bustling around me, yet here, there's a palpable sense of decay, of lives hanging in the balance. As I make my way up the creaky stairs to his apartment, I ready myself in case he tries to run again.

Twice I’ve almost caught him and twice he’s got away. Not this time. It ends now.

I kick the door in. There stands Mark, looking as worn and frayed as the building he's living in, bowl of cereal in his hands. His lack of surprise at seeing me doesn't mask the fear in his eyes.

“Enough running,” I say. “Sit.”

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