Page 23 of Dark Mafia Vows

He says it so condescendingly that I’m genuinely short of words.

Taking my silence as acceptance, he continues, “You’re going to be a housewife soon. You shouldn’t stress over business matters.”

His words strike a nerve. “A housewife? Is that all you think I’m good for?” I yell. “Before you met me, I’d always had plans to open my own bakery. Do you think I’m just going to sit around while you make decisions for me just because we’re getting married?”

“Here you go getting angry again,” he huffs, and I imagine him rolling his eyes. “Honestly, maybe this is for the best. The universe is trying to tell you something. Maybe you should have never bothered yourself with this in the first place?—”

“This is not for the best,” I scream. “I can’t fucking believe you.”

He blows out a breath, and I can hear his irritation through the line. “Fine. It’s not for the best. It’s just a phase, Ginny. You’ll adapt,” he snaps.

“No, I won’t.” I don’t care that I’m shouting now. I’m so fucking done. “This is my dream! If you can’t support me, then I’m done with this engagement!”

Silence stretches between us, thick and charged. I can almost hear him processing my words. “You’re being unreasonable,” he finally says, but the fire inside me won’t be extinguished.

“You’re so fucking selfish.” I chuckle harshly. “I wonder why I’ve put up with this sham of a relationship for too long.”

“Mind your words, Ginny,” he warns, but I don’t have it in me to care.

“Fuck you, Rinaldo. Fuck your condensation, your random mood swings, and your attitude. Fuckyourselfish dreams for what’s supposed to beourfuture.”

“Ginny—”

“I’m done,” I declare, the finality of my words crashing over me like a wave. I hang up before he can respond, my heart racing with mixed emotions. Anger, hurt, relief.

I drive home, the city whizzing by in a blur. The streets are filled with people chatting and laughing, but I feel like a ghost. Empty. Invincible. Alone.

“Dario, you think you can just ruin my life and walk away?” I mutter, gripping the steering wheel tightly. I think I’m going crazy. “I won’t let you get away with this.”

As I pull into my driveway of Lorenzo’s house, the sun is slowly dipping behind the horizon, creating an orange hue that bathes a warm color across the lawn. The house looms ahead, stark and quiet, mirroring my frustration. I step inside and toss my bag onto the couch, the sound echoing in the empty space.

I hate him. I hate him so much. I’m desperate to show Dario that I’m not a pawn in his game. That I’m a player, and I won’tback down. But the resolve is drowned by my sorrow. The only gripping need within me is a desire to just forget. To pretend he doesn’t exist. To pretend like my life is as perfect as it was before he came.

And I know exactly what I need to do.

10

DARIO

The low hum of laughter and the steady thump of bass ripple through the club’s walls, cocooning me in a haze of smoke and cheap cologne mixed with the sweet tang of cocktails.

I swirl the whiskey in my hand before taking a slow sip, letting the cool liquid burn its way down my throat. Leaning back into the plush leather seat, I take another sip, savoring the moment.

Several ledgers are spread out on the table before me. I grab the nearest one and begin to go through its contents, skimming over each entry before moving onto the next.

There is something calming about this routine—tracking the flow of cash from my various underground businesses while music pulses around me.

The atmosphere makes it easy for me to lose track of time while I go through every single piece of paperwork. I have an office at the back of the bar, but I prefer staying here, my eyes occasionally drifting to the crowd below when I need a break from the numbers.

From the elevated booth where I’m seated, I have a perfect view of the club. The dance floor, the bar, and the stage all unfold before me, alive with energy. The room is bathed in shades of red and blue from the pulsing lights, casting shadows that dance across the walls.

I’m about to dive back into the ledgers when something on the dance floor catches my eye—a woman.

She’s dressed in a skimpy outfit that clings to her curves, the fabric shimmering under the flashing lights. The way she moves is magnetic—her body rolling to the rhythm of the slow R&B song blasting through the speakers.

My heart stops as she throws her head back, making her face come into my view.

Ginny.

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