Page 58 of Dark Mafia Vows

“I’m not marrying Dario for his money.”

“Of course not,” Camille replies. “Finding someone who’s both incredibly rich and, well, willing to overlook all the...past complications isn’t easy.”

That’s it.

Without hesitation, I rise sharply from my seat. Jennifer and the other designers flinch, clearly startled, but I know they’ve all heard Camille’s cruel words. Fury pulses through me as I stride toward Ginny’s fitting room. Each step seems to throb against the silence of the shop, the air growing heavier with every second.

I reach the door and push it open without knocking. Camille’s face snaps toward me in surprise, while Ginny turns to meet my gaze, her expression torn between disbelief and anger.

“What did you just say to my fiancée ?” My voice is low, threatening. I close the distance between us, stepping into the room, unbothered that it’s a private fitting space. I plant myself protectively in front of Ginny, shielding her.

Camille squares her shoulders, her initial confidence wavering. “Excuse me?”

I lean in slightly, my tone dropping to a dangerous growl. “Don’t make me fucking repeat myself.”

Ginny tenses beside me, her eyes darting between us. She gently places her hand over my clenched fists, a silent plea for restraint. “Dario, please...”

I pull my hands away from hers, my gaze still fixed on Camille. “Stay back, Ginny.” I can’t—won’t—let anyone tear her down like that. Not now. Not ever.

Camille’s voice shakes, though she tries to maintain her composure. “Y-you think you can just walk in here and threaten me? This is my workplace!”

A bitter laugh escapes me. “I can shut down this whole place with one call.”

The room buzzes with tension, heavy and suffocating. From the corner of my eye, I see the other employees watching from the open doorway, their faces frozen in shock as they witness the escalating confrontation. This could very well mean their jobs, as well.

“Apologize to Ginny,” I growl, venom lacing every word, “or I promise you, your career will be over. I don’t care how high you’ve climbed recently. Nothing will protect you from what comes next. That’s not a warning—it’s a fact.”

Camille’s face flushes, her pride struggling against the fear rising in her eyes as I reach for my phone. The red creeping up her cheeks only sharpens my anger.

“Dario,” Ginny whispers, her hand brushing my arm, desperate to diffuse the situation.

I ignore her plea, my fingers already dialing the number. Camille’s bravado falters instantly, her confidence evaporating as she senses the shift in the room. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she stammers, her voice wavering. “I wasn’t trying to insult her.”

“The line clicks as Roberto Mancini picks up. “Dario De Luca,” his familiar voice comes through, steady and professional.

“Roberto, I need something handled,” I say, cutting straight to the point, my tone leaving no room for discussion. “Your manager at the Fifth Avenue branch, Camille Waters. She needs to go.”

A pause follows, and Roberto exhales slowly on the other end. “Camille?” he repeats, clearly surprised. “She’s one of our top performers. Is there an issue of which I need to be aware?”

“There is,” I reply coldly. “She insulted my fiancée. That’s all the reason you need.”

Another pause, and then a resigned sigh. “I see. I understand. Consider it done.”

I hang up without another word, turning back to Camille, who’s visibly paling just as the area manager steps into the room. Her name escapes me, but she’s calm, composed—and likely summoned by Roberto himself.

“Camille,” she begins with a carefully measured tone, her gaze steady. “I’m afraid I’ll have to dismiss you. Effective immediately.”

The color drains from Camille’s face as she stares in disbelief. “What?” Her voice cracks. “You can’t be serious. I have qualifications from top fashion schools. I’m the best in this store!”

The manager remain unflinching. “It’s already been decided.”

Whispers ripple through the room, quiet murmurs filling the charged silence. Camille’s eyes dart around, searching for some kind of support, but no one speaks up. No one moves. They know better than to.

“This is an abuse of power,” she hisses at me, her voice trembling as she struggles to regain control. “You can’t just?—”

“I’m sorry, Camille,” the manager says firmly, cutting her off. “Please collect your things.”

Camille’s defiance crumbles, replaced by a stunned silence as the weight of what’s happening fully sinks in. She turns, walking away without another word, her colleagues exchanging uneasy glances.

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