Page 52 of Married to the Mafia Devil

“Trust me,” she says earnestly. “You walk in there and he’ll know what you’re doing at once. Me, I’m an unknown quantity. He’ll never expect it of me. It’ll work, I’m sure of it. Then we can be together with nothing to worry about.” She kisses me softly. “You have to trust me. That son of a bitch hired Vlad. He hurt my father. He’s going to pay.”

“You could get hurt. I won’t be there to protect you.”

“Yes, you will. You’ve taught me how to be strong. You’ve proved to me that I was always strong. I know I can do this. I can end this once and for all.”

Her words hang in the air, heavy and fraught with implication. The very idea of her walking into danger gnaws at me, battling with the trust I've pledged to uphold.

“Okay,” I finally say, the words more a vow than a simple statement. But they're heavy with the weight of my apprehension.

As we lay here, I realize how much she's changed me—for the better. She's unraveled the knots of control and fear that bound me, showing me that true strength sometimes comes from letting go.

I let her take charge in the bedroom. I’m letting her do something for me I would never trust another soul with. It could go terribly wrong but I have to show her I trust her like she’s trusting me not to hurt her.

I reach over, taking her hand in mine, feeling the coolness of her skin against my warmth. “Be careful,” I say, the words thick in my throat. “And remember, if it gets too much, if it ever feels too dangerous, just get out. We’ll find another way.”

She squeezes my hand, a smile flickering across her lips. “He’s going to regret messing with me and my family. Trust me,” she asserts, her voice tinged with a fierceness that reassures me more than anything else.

I can’t help but smile back, despite the gnawing fear that refuses to subside. “I do trust you. More than I’ve ever trusted anyone.”

“This isn’t just for me or for my family. It’s for us, for a future where we don’t have to look over our shoulders. Where we can be free from threats like Igor Petrovitch.”

TWENTY-THREE

Emma

As I step into the dimly lit study, the air feels thick with the scent of stale cigar smoke and aged leather. Igor Petrovitch sits behind a massive, cluttered desk, an embodiment of power that has settled uncomfortably into decay.

He doesn't stand to greet me, nor does it seem he intends to. Instead, he reclines in his oversized chair, a picture of neglectful ease.

His hair, once likely a deep black, now battles with streaks of gray, and it's slicked back in a way that tries to command respect, but only manages to suggest a sleazy charm.

His face, heavily lined with wrinkles carved by years of underhanded dealings, shifts into a smirk as his gaze sweeps over me, slow and assessing. It makes my skin crawl and I hope he sees more than just Matteo’s wife before him.

His shirt is unbuttoned more than what would be considered decent, revealing a hint of a gold chain nestled against aging, sallow skin. The rest of his attire is equally disheveled, his suit jacket thrown carelessly over the chair’s arm, his tie loose and skewed. It’s clear that appearance is an afterthought to a man who relies on fear more than respect.

He taps a thick finger against the desk. “So, you are the little bird who’s been fluttering around my business,” he begins, his voice thick with a Russian accent that rolls his Rs and turns his words into a slow drawl. “And you want me to believe you wish death upon your husband?”

The room feels as if it hasn’t seen fresh air in years, much like the man before me who seems to have entrenched himself so deeply in his corrupt ways that any movement feels like an unnecessary effort. I want to open a window, let the stink of corruption out into the night sky.

I stay where I am, not daring to sit without an invitation, my discomfort growing as his eyes linger with a laziness that feels intentionally disrespectful. It’s clear that Igor Petrovitch embodies the type of sleazy lethargy that only the truly dangerous can afford.

“I think we should have a drink,” he says with a smile, motioning toward the cabinet by the window. “Celebrate our new arrangement.”

“I expect to be paid handsomely,” I reply as I head for the drinks.

“How could I not? You tell my men you will give me Matteo Rossi. Only a fool would ignore such an offer.”

I pour the drinks, a rich amber liquid that catches the light from the chandelier overhead. He continues to talk as I add ice. “He blackmailed the appropriations committee. Once I decrypt that file of his, I will have proof. The deal will be rescinded. They will sell to me. Your husband is about to be thrown into poverty. Or jail if I can find a witness who saw him kill Vladimir. I know he did it, I just need proof.”

I carry two glasses over to the desk. “I watched it happen. Killed him right in front of me.”

“I knew it.” He slams his fist into the desk. “You will say so in public?”

“Pay me enough and I’ll dance the fucking Charleston for you. I don’t give a shit what happens to Matteo.”

He lifts his glass, eyeing me over the rim with a grin that doesn’t reach his cold eyes. “To your brilliant performance,” he toasts, his voice smooth and dangerous. “Convincing Matteo your love was genuine. A bold move while working behind his back to get rich. I admire you, you’re my kind of woman.”

I lift my glass to meet his, my hand steady. “And to getting rich,” I reply, my voice echoing the same sincerity he exudes.

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