Page 44 of Married to the Mafia Devil

The question hangs in the air, heavy and daunting. “I... I'm still deciding,” I admit, feeling a knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach.

“Emma,” his voice softens, “I need to know where we stand. If you're with me, I'll take care of you, always. You won't have to worry about anything ever again.”

His promise is seductive, filled with the assurance of security and care. But it also reminds me of the control he holds, the control I'm afraid of losing to him. “And if I decide it's not what I want? Will you accept that?”

There's a brief silence, a hesitation that speaks volumes. “Yes, I will,” he finally says, though I can hear the effort it takes for him to make such a concession. “But think about it, Emma. Really think. You could have everything.”

His words replay in my mind long after he hangs up. Can I live like this? The question echoes through the quiet, resonating with my deepest fears and desires. The safety and love he offers are tantalizing, but at what cost to my own freedom, to the independence I've fought so hard to gain?

Pamela looks my way but I just shake my head and bury myself in my book. It’s the only thing I know how to do.

EIGHTEEN

Matteo

The familiar scent of coffee fills the air as I walk in. Two days of getting what I need to deal with Petrovitch, and I’m not prepared for the emotions that hit me when I see Emma.

I find her sitting at the kitchen table, bathed in the gentle morning light that filters through the window.

She’s eating breakfast, looking so naturally a part of this house. It feels right, like a glimpse of a future I've seldom allowed myself to envision.

But as quickly as the warmth washes over me, a cold tide of fear follows. Emotion leads to pain.

“Morning,” she says, looking up at me with a small smile. “How was your trip?”

“It was fine,” I reply curtly, trying to maintain a composed exterior as I pour myself a cup of coffee. My evasiveness hangs between us, a barrier I'm not willing to lower.

“Where did you go?” she probes, her tone casual but insistent. Her eyes search mine, looking for something I'm not sure I can give.

“Just business,” I deflect, keeping my answers vague. I can’t tell her that I’ve been securing what I need to finally handle her father’s situation, something she might not understand or accept.

She frowns, setting down her fork, her appetite forgotten. “You're always 'just business,' but what does that mean, exactly? I never know where you are, what you're doing. If we're going to be together, I need more than that.”

I stiffen, the request—no, the demand—striking a nerve. “What I do, the decisions I make, they're for the both of us. For our future.”

“But if I'm part of this future, shouldn't I know about it? Shouldn't I be a part of these decisions?” Her voice rises slightly, frustration evident.

“You knew who I was when this started. You knew the life I lead,” I counter, feeling the walls I’ve built around my emotions solidifying further.

“Yes, but I didn't realize it would mean being kept in the dark. Being with you shouldn't mean I have to stop asking questions, stop caring about how you spend your days and nights,” she argues back, her voice firm and challenging.

The conversation escalates quickly. “I can't change who I am, Emma. I control my world, my business, because I have to. That's how I protect us,” I say sharply, my tone brooking no argument.

“And what about me? Who protects me from becoming just another part of your controlled environment?” she retorts, standing now, her body tense with the need to be heard, to be considered.

The room feels smaller, the air thicker. “If you can't handle my world, maybe this was a mistake,” I say, the words harsh, tasting of fear and regret.

Her expression hardens, and she grabs her bag from the chair. “Maybe it was,” she agrees coldly, heading for the door.

“Where are you going?” I demand, my voice echoing in the suddenly empty kitchen.

“To think,” she says without turning back, leaving me alone with the chilling realization that in my pursuit to control everything, I might just lose the one thing I've come to value above all.

The door clicks shut behind her, and the echo seems to reverberate throughout the space, marking her departure in a way that feels too final.

I follow her. I need an answer. “Stop,” I say before she’s halfway down the hall. “What’s your decision?”

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” she starts, her hands clasped tightly. “About us, about this arrangement. I’ve realized something.”

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