Page 69 of Dark Mafia Vows

A blush warms my cheeks as the memories flood back, vivid and intoxicating. No matter how many times I have sex with Dario, I can never seem to get enough of him. Each encounter only leaves me craving more.

I bend down to pick up his things, a familiar warmth spreading through my chest with each item I gather. I love how sometimes he’s frantic and rough, as if he can’t get enough of me, while other times he takes his sweet time to touch and tease, driving me to the brink of begging him to fuck me. When he finally does, he moves slowly and passionately, as if he wants to engrain every second of it in his mind.

I like that. I like how it’s obvious he wants me just as much as I want him—maybe even more.

Once I’ve collected all the scattered pieces of his clothes, I slip out of my room and head to his. It’s empty, just as I expected. He’s off to work and won’t return until late afternoon or evening. I’ve learned his routine by heart, almost as well as I would know my own if I had one—indoor gym, then the office, then home, where we spend the rest of the evening together.

Rosa is the most thrilled about my blossoming relationship with Dario. She never fails to tell me how glad she is that he looks happier, eats more, and comes home early instead of working all the time.

When I step into Dario’s room, his familiar scent envelops me. It’s so him in here—clean, sharp, masculine, and a touch expensive. The bed is perfectly made, the nightstand clear except for a black-covered notebook and his phone charger. It feels strange to be in his space without him, as if I’m intruding somehow, but find myself lingering anyway.

I drop his clothes into the laundry hamper beside his bathroom door and glance around, a flutter in my chest as I remember the first day I moved in. When Rosa told me that Dario had requested my things be taken to his room, I’d thought he was the biggest prick in the world.

The idea of sharing a bed and space with him had felt like pure torture. Now, it all reminds me of him—his taste, his smell.Him.

No matter how much I try to pretend otherwise, I like how our arrangement has evolved. It’s as if our bodies and minds were made for each other. I’m excited about what the future holds for us. My thoughts drift back to the contract Lorenzo signed binding Dario and me in marriage for ten years before either of us can pull out.

Ten years is such a long time, but time flies when you’re having fun. After ten years—then what? An uncomfortable knot forms in my stomach at the thought of ever leaving Dario. I can’t imagine ending it when our time is up.

It’s too early for this kind of thinking.

But before I can get lost in those thoughts, a soft buzz pulls my attention. I glance at his sleek black phone lying on the dresser as it lights up with a new message.

I freeze.

I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.

Yet, something compels me to walk over to the phone. Curiosity—or maybe something deeper—urges me closer. My fingers hover over the screen, my mind racing. He must’ve forgotten his phone in his office this morning. The lock screen displays a notification with a woman’s name. My stomach flips as I stare at it.

I should definitely drop the phone now, walk out of his room, and pretend none of this ever happened. But curiosity and something else I can’t recognize twist my stomach.

I hesitate only a second before I guess the password. It’s easy—Rosa. The fact that he uses it is almost sweet, like a small gesture of respect toward the woman who’s cared for him like a mother for years. But that thought quickly fades when I open the message.

Should I come to your office or will you come to mine?

My breath catches in my throat. My heart sinks like a heavy stone to the bottom of my chest. I scroll up, skimming theprevious messages between them. They’re casual, not too vulgar, but the meaning is crystal clear.

They used to meet up like this. For sex.

The air in the room thickens, pressing down on me like a weight. I drop the phone back on the dresser as if it has burned me, my hands shaking slightly. What had I expected? That he’d be faithful? That he’d stop sleeping with other women just because he spends most nights in my bed?

My chest tightens, a wave of sadness crashing over me. I don’t understand why it hurts so much. I should’ve known better. Men like Dario don’t do commitment. They don’t do love. Every decision they make and action they take is either for their business or their own pleasure.

But still, I feel it—a deep, aching sadness I can’t shake. I stumble back to my room, feeling hollow, and close the door softly behind me. The house feels too quiet, too empty. My heart feels too heavy.

I try to push the thought away, reminding myself that this is just sex. We were both taking advantage of an unpleasant situation, using each other’s bodies for pleasure. But the truth lingers, gnawing at me—this is just an arrangement.

Each thought leaves me feeling increasingly hollow, because deep down, I know I’m lying to myself. It’s been more than just sex for me.

The day drags on. I don’t leave my room. I don’t eat, having lost my appetite. Rosa comes up to check on me, but I don’t move or leave my bed to attend to her. My mind keeps replaying that message, the casual tone of it, as if meeting up with other women is just normal for him. As if I’m nothing special.

The sun sets, casting long shadows across the room. I hear the familiar rumble of his car engine pulling into the driveway, and my heart races. I rush to the door and lock it, my handstrembling as I twist the key. I can’t see him. I can’t face him—not now.

I press my back against the door, closing my eyes as I hear his footsteps approach the house. They’re slow, steady, like he’s not in any rush. The front door creaks open, and then silence. My breath catches in my throat as I wait, half-expecting him to come straight to my room, to demand to find me. But the house stays quiet.

I know he’ll come looking for me eventually. He always does. But for now, he stays downstairs, probably talking to Rosa.

I don’t know if I can face him when he finally comes. How can I look at him, knowing what I know now? How can I pretend I’m not breaking inside, and that my heart isn’t shattering with every beat? How can I even be mad at him, knowing our agreement is just that—an agreement? Sex and feelings aren’t included.

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