Page 63 of Dark Mafia Vows

The last time I saw him was at the charity gala last week, and despite things not being as strained with Dario as before, I’m still furious with my brother.

Because of him, I’ve been shoved into this uncomfortable, humiliating mess. I’ve been insulted, judged, and cornered, all thanks to his actions.

And you’ve had mind-blowing, animalistic sex with the man you’re supposed to hate. Twice.

My inner voice taunts, a hypocritical whisper I’ve tried—and failed—to silence. I ignore it, just like I ignore Lorenzo.

When I reenter the kitchen, Lorenzo fixes me with a determined look, arms still crossed, a familiar stubbornness etched into his features. “I’m not leaving until you talk to me, Ginny. I mean it. You know I do.”

“That’s your problem,” I snap, the words sharper than I intend. There’s a crackling tension in the air, despite my brother’s attempts to dispel it.

He steps forward, his tone softening just a fraction. “You know I’m sorry, Ginny. I never wanted this for you. I know you’re stuck with a man you can’t stand.” His lips curl into a teasing smile, but there’s an undercurrent of sadness in his eyes. “But I’ve also noticed you’ve been doing a lot of baking lately. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s that you only do that when you’re happy.”

He’s right about that. I’ve baked every day since Dario and I last slept together, trying desperately to distract myself from the desire that keeps bubbling up whenever he’s around. And since Dario’s been home more often, the temptation has only grown harder to resist.

I roll my eyes, unable to suppress the flicker of warmth at his observation. “Baking is my escape, Lorenzo. It doesn’t mean I’m happy about this mess,” I lie.

Guilt flares as I realize I’ve let Dario, the very man who orchestrated this situation, touch me while I’m still furious with my brother. A brother who, admittedly, had little say in the matter. But I can’t shake my disappointment in Lorenzo. I expected more from him.

“I’ve been baking because Rosa’s not here,” I lie, focusing intently on the dough.

“Rosa?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

“The cook and head housekeeper,” I reply curtly, irritation bubbling up again. My hands pause their movements as I glare at him. “Stop talking to me.”

A low chuckle escapes his lips. “We haven’t spoken since all of this went down. Aren’t you even a little curious about how I’ve been?”

I turn to face him, arms crossing defensively. “And what exactly do you want me to say, Lorenzo? That I’m thrilled to see you? That I’ve missed you even though the mess we’re in is entirely your fault?”

His smirk widens, a glint of amusement flashing in his eyes. “You’re just as charming as ever.”

I scoop up a spoonful of dough, rolling it into a ball, ignoring the sarcastic edge in his voice. But his steady, probing gaze follows me, making my skin prickle. He’s waiting for something—waiting for me to crack.

“I’ll scoop out your eyes with this,” I mutter, waving the spoon at him in mock threat.

Lorenzo chuckles again, but this time his smile falters, a flicker of sadness in his eyes. “You sound just like Papa,” he says quietly.

The mention of our father hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken memories. I pause, the dough resting in my hands as I think back to the way he used to push us, beyond our limits and to the point of exhaustion.

My memory of him was that he was always angry, and I often bore the brunt of his anger. However, whatever I suffered was nothing compared to what Lorenzo faced, especially since he was much older. He was also the expected heir to the Bianchi Empire.

“I don’t think I’m like him,” I huff, and that earns me a small chuckle from him.

“Yes, you are, at least right now,” Lorenzo teases. “You’re being extremely difficult, unforgiving, and grumpy.”

I roll my eyes again, but a small smile teases the edges of my lips at the fact that he’s not wrong. Children often take little bits of traits from their parents, after all.

“Papa wasn’t a bad man,” Lorenzo says after a few beats of silence. When I look at him, he has a serious expression on his face. “You know he only wanted the best for us.”

I don’t say anything because, well, I don’t have anything to say. I liked my Papa as much as liking parents went, but that’s where it ends.

Lorenzo continues, something distant flickering in his eyes. “He did some terrible things, but he wasn’t a bad person.”

Why does it sound like he’s trying to convince himself of that?

“Right, tough love and all that,” I reply, my tone sarcastic. “Was it worth it, though? Your children having to think very hard before they remember good moments with you?”

Lorenzo sighs before taking a step closer. “Maybe he didn’t care about that. All he wanted was for the family legacy to continue, and to an extent, that happened. The company was thriving…before everything went wrong.”

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