Page 66 of Dark Mafia Vows

The oven pings, signaling that my cookies are done. I turn it off and pull the pan out, but the sweet aroma does little to lift mymood. I arrange the cookies in a container, placing them by the fridge, and then retreat angrily to my room, the comforting scent fading behind me.

I stay holed up in my room for the rest of the day, having my meals brought up like I’m some kind of prisoner in my own life rather than the soon to be wife in this mansion. The weight of everything presses down on me, and I can’t shake the feeling that something’s off.

That night, I toss and turn, the bed sheets tangled around me, sleep refusing to come. My mind is a storm of frustration, anxiety, and a gnawing sense of dread. Ineedto know what really happened between Lorenzo and Dario. The more I try to push it away, the more it claws at my insides, demanding answers.

As much as I’m furious with Dario for interrupting earlier, for being so infuriatingly controlling, I can’t shake the concern I feel for him. There’s this growing, stubborn part of me that worries for his well-being.Why?I shouldn’t care, not after everything. But I do.

Each passing minute drags out my fears, twisting my stomach into knots. What if the truth is worse than I imagined? What if it shatters whatever fragile peace I’ve managed to cling to? Worse still…what if knowing the truth makes me fall for Dario completely?

That thought terrifies me most of all.

28

DARIO

The morning sun hangs low in the sky as I jog up the street, the soft glow illuminating the manicured lawns and grand houses that line the way. Each heavy step on the gravel is steady, but my mind races faster than my feet.

I can’t shake thoughts of Ginny off my mind. I spent the whole of yesterday trying to forget the disappointment and anger I saw in her eyes. Hearing her ask Lorenzo about the history of our animosity shocked me at first. I thought he’d have already given her a false story painting me as the villain. But he hadn’t even told her the root of our falling out in the first place.

I wonder why he hadn’t told her? Maybe he was embarrassed about what he’d done several years ago, or maybe she just believed everything he told her so she’d never asked what the root of the problem was.

Regardless of that, I panicked the moment I heard him about to recount that memory. It’s something I’ve buried deep within me for such a long time, and I felt uncomfortable having Ginny hear about it.

A heavy breath leaves my lips as I realize I’ve spent my whole jog thinking about Ginny, and she’s the exact reason I went outto clear my mind in the first place. I try to shake my thoughts off, but they cling to me like the sweat on my skin.

The air is crisp and fresh, scented with the faint aroma of blooming flowers from nearby gardens and lawns. As I approach my house, I quicken my pace, eager to grab a cold drink and cool down.

I enter the gate and jog toward the front door before pushing it open. The faint creak echoes in the stillness of the early hour, and the cool air inside hits me like a wave, a welcome relief from the warmth outside.

The house is quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. As I walk in, the sunlight pours through the windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

My vest clings to my back, soaked from the jog I took to clear my head. Sweat trickles down my forehead, stinging my eyes, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand.

I head straight to the kitchen, hoping for a cold drink to cool down. But as I enter, my breath catches.

There’s Ginny, bent over, rummaging through the lower cabinets. Her shorts cling to her legs, accentuating the curve of her hips. And that ass…god, that ass.

I exhale sharply, frustration bubbling up as I mutter a curse under my breath. My plan is to head toward the fridge, but instead, I slam my toe into the counter. A dull pain shoots up my leg, and my irritation rises, spreading like wildfire.

“Ginny?” My voice is rough, a growl, really. “What are you doing up?”

She doesn’t rush. Slowly, deliberately, she straightens up, turning to face me with a look that has trouble written all over it. Her front isn’t any better. That light pink tank top clings to her, and it’s blatantly obvious she’s not wearing a bra, her nipples pushing through the fabric like some kind of twisted dare.

“Oh, you’re here,” she says, feigning surprise with a smug little smile. Without a second glance, she walks straight to the fridge, right where I was heading. “Didn’t know you jogged in the mornings.”

I clench my jaw so hard it hurts. It’s barely 7 a.m., and she never gets up this early. Not without a reason. My eyes narrow—she’s doing this on purpose, needling me after yesterday.

“You should probably wear something more appropriate when you’re out of your room,” I grind out, folding my arms across my chest in a way that’s meant to look casual, but really it’s just to keep myself from doing something I’ll regret.

Her gaze flicks to my arms, lingering a moment before she raises an eyebrow at me. “And what’s wrong with what I’m wearing? Is it the shorts?” She cocks her hip, twisting just enough to give me a perfect view of her backside, her eyes dancing with mischief.

I ignore the heat rising in my chest and focus on her next move as she grabs a bottle of water from the fridge. With a flick of her wrist, she shuts the door and makes her way to the cabinet. It’s too high for her, and she knows it. As she stands on her tiptoes, her tank top inches up, revealing a sliver of toned stomach and a slim waist that does nothing to help my self-control.

After a minute of struggle, she turns and gives me a hard stare. “Won’t you be a gentleman and help me, Dario?” Her voice is soft, almost a purr, dripping with the challenge she’s throwing my way.

I run a hand through my damp hair, my breath still heavy from the jog, and try to focus on anything but the way she’s looking at me. I walk over to her, standing behind her body as I reach for the glass cup. A different type of heat burns through my body as I tower over her, despite the few inches between us.

“There are other glass cups in the lower drawer,” I mutter, retrieving the one she was so adamantly reaching for.

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