Page 10 of Dark Mafia Bride

Or...what if he actually wants more? What if he asks for my number and wants to see me again?

Do you really think men like Ettore want to be seen with women like you in broad daylight?

Yup. That snaps me right out of it.

I quickly grab my clothes from the floor, my heart racing as I tug on my black dress and jacket, trying to be as quiet as possible. I steal one last glance at him—still sound asleep—before I slip out of the room, carefully closing the door behind me. The hotel hallway feels colder than the room, and guilt clings to me like a second skin.

As I step outside, the city is just beginning to wake up. The streets in this part of town are spotless and quiet. I walk past pristine buildings, shiny cars, and people who look as if they’ve never had to struggle a day in their lives. My world is nothing like this. The fancy part of town is somewhere I only pass through by accident, usually on my way home from jobs that pay far too little for the hell I go through.

And the farther I go, the uglier the city gets. The smooth sidewalks give way to cracked pavement, the shiny storefronts replaced by dirty glass windows and graffiti-covered walls. By the time I reach my neighborhood, it feels as if I’ve stepped into a completely different world. The familiar smell of damp walls and stale cooking oil hits me as I reach the door.

The small, cramped apartment I share with my grandmother, younger sister, and sick mother couldn’t be more different from the luxurious room I just left behind.

The sounds of bickering greet me as I open the door. My sister Giulia sits at the table with her arms crossed and a playfulscowl on her face. Nonna is at the stove, stirring something that smells suspiciously like burnt toast. My mom sits nearby, wrapped in a blanket, her face pale but her eyes bright with amusement.

“Mirabella is here!” Giulia announces as soon as she spots me. “Now, settle this—who makes the best pancakes?” she asks, hands on her hips like she’s ready for battle.

“Uh...” I hesitate, sensing a trap.

“Nonna says she’s the best, but let’s be honest—she’s great at cooking, but she can’t bake to save her life.”

“Pancakes aren’t even baked,” Nonna grumbles without looking up from the stove.

“Nonna’s bad at anything involving flour,” Giulia huffs.

“And who do you think makes the gnocchi and pasta you devour like there’s no tomorrow?” Nonna shoots back.

I shake my head as they keep going at it, leaning down to kiss my mother’s forehead.

“Did you sleep well?” I ask softly, and she nods, offering me a weak but warm smile.

“Hey, you!” Nonna calls out, waving the spoon at me now. “Don’t think you can sneak in and pretend like everything is fine. Where were you all night, eh?”

My pulse quickens. I can never lie to Nonna. She’s got that radar, that sixth sense that can sniff out any fib. She sees right through me no matter how hard I try to hide things. “I...had dinner with a friend,” I say carefully. It’s not exactly a lie, but the words feel heavy in my mouth. “We went back to a hotel room to talk afterward. Alessia joined us, too.”

I know throwing in Alessia’s name will make Nonna relax a bit.

Giulia looks up with a smirk. “Alessia, huh? You guys must’ve been up all night...talking.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me.

I scowl at her. Ever since she turned thirteen and entered the dreaded teenage years, as she likes to remind me every day, she thinks every word has an innuendo or a naughty meaning behind it.

Well, in this case, she’s right, which only makes it even more annoying.

“Something like that,” I mutter.

“Some talk that must’ve been.”

Nonna gives me a long look, and I hold my breath, waiting for her to dig deeper. But she just hums and turns back to the stove.Thank God.

My eyes flick back to my mother, who’s quietly sipping her tea. My heart sinks as I notice her fingers trembling slightly around the cup. She looks more tired than usual. Every day, the pain takes a little more out of her, leaving her a shell of the woman she used to be.

It’s a normal morning, or at least, as normal as it can be in our household. The laughter, the teasing, the well-made breakfast Nonna insists on making every morning. But the moment is shattered when my mom suddenly lets out a violent cough that shakes her whole body.

“Mom?” I rush over to help her, gently taking the cup from her hands. Some of the tea has already spilled onto the old, worn carpet. “Are you okay?”

She nods, but the tightness in her face tells a different story. “Just having a bad morning,” she says, trying to brush it off.

“Bad morning, my foot,” Nonna mutters, dropping her spoon as she walks over. “You need to lie down, my dear. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

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