Page 111 of Dark Mafia Bride

“Let me go,” I snarl, struggling against his hold, my voice cracking with the weight of it all. “I need to be with her.”

Just then, I hear footsteps behind me—heavy, measured steps. I turn, and my heart drops when I see Vittorio, flanked by Isabella, Giulia, Nonna, Aunt Francesca, and Zia Camilla.

Isabella crumples into sobs, her body trembling as Giulia holds her hand tightly. Nonna stands rigid, fury and pain radiating from her like heat. Her eyes lock onto me, full of accusation, and the sight of their grief twists the knife in my chest.

But none of that matters. Not right now. My entire world has narrowed down to Mirabella. She’s the only thing I can think about. She’s all that matters.

Three minutes and twenty seconds.

That’s how long I’ve been pacing in this sterile, cold waiting room. The fluorescent lights buzz above, casting harsh shadows on the white tiles beneath my restless feet. I can’t sit still. Every step I take is another echo of my heartbeat, and it feels like I’m suffocating in here.

The tension in the room is enough to choke on.

Isabella and Giulia have stopped crying, but their eyes are swollen, red. Nonna sits, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her gaze searing into me every time I pass by. Vittorio stands at the side, his jaw clenched, his body rigid. He hasn’t said a word to me—not even a small gesture of comfort. I know he’s angry, maybe even disgusted by me.

I should have listened to him. I should have talked to her, not thrown insults at her.

Please. Let her be okay. Just let her and the baby?—

My fists clench at the thought, and I force my eyes shut. I can’t think about that. I won’t. It doesn’t matter if the child is mine or not. It should matter, but right now, nothing does except Mirabella.

Then, I feel the soft scent of jasmine perfume behind me. I turn, and Zia Camilla is standing there, her expression tight, lips pressed into a firm line. She gives me that look, the one that only makes my rage boil hotter.

“Ettore,” she starts, her voice too soft, too calm. “You need to calm down. Mirabella will be fine. Your pacing around here isn’t helping anyone. You’ve done enough. Let the professionals take care of her.”

My hands curl into fists at my sides. Before I realize it, I’ve grabbed her arm, my grip hard and unrelenting. “You either go back home and the get fuck out my face or keep your fucking mouth shut,” I spit out, my voice low and dangerous.

Zia’s eyes widen slightly at my tone, but she doesn’t argue. She winces when I release her, running a hand through my hair in frustration.

“Mr. Greco?” A firm voice cuts through the tension.

My heart lurches in my chest. I turn to see a tall woman in teal scrubs, her stethoscope around her neck, her expression unreadable but kind.

“How is she?” I choke out, stepping toward her, my feet moving before my mind can catch up. “How is my Mirabella?”

The doctor’s professional gaze softens, just a fraction. “She’s stable. A slight concussion, but nothing life-threatening. She’ll need to rest and be monitored, but she’s going to be fine.”

Fine.The word barely registers. I stand there, frozen, as a wave of relief crashes over me, but it’s still not enough to easethe tight knot in my chest. Mirabella’s not out of the woods, not yet. But for the first time in hours, I can breathe again.

I try to steady myself, but the doctor adds more words that freeze me in place.

“And,” she says, glancing down at her clipboard, “we’ll also be keeping a close eye on her pregnancy.”

A soft gasp ripples through the room, and I turn, my eyes catching Mirabella’s family as their faces fall into stunned silence. They didn’t know.

“Mirabella is pregnant?” Isabella’s voice cracks, barely a whisper, but the weight of it lands hard in the room.

The doctor looks between us, gauging the atmosphere, and responds carefully, “Yes. She’s approximately eight weeks along. The baby appears healthy, though we’ll need to conduct further tests to confirm.”

I pause, the shock pulsing through me. I couldn’t have heard her correctly.

“I’m sorry, what did you just say?” I demand, struggling to keep my voice steady. “How far along is she?”

The doctor meets my gaze, calm and unflinching, as if she’s dealt with this reaction before. “I said she’s about eight weeks along. Despite her condition, she kept repeating the words ‘my baby,’ so we conducted a check. I’m pleased to tell you that no harm has come to the pregnancy. Once she’s stabilized, we’ll proceed with more tests to ensure everything is progressing well.”

Eight weeks. My mind spirals, calculating the timing. Eight weeks ago… That was before everything, before the pictures, before the lies, before the betrayals. It was a time when it was just us—she and I, tangled in a storm of rain and passion, no secrets, no doubts.

Before I took her virginity. Her innocence.

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