Page 112 of Dark Mafia Bride

Before I fucked everything up.

The world tilts, and I stagger back, my legs suddenly weak. I grab the back of a chair, trying to steady myself, but everything feels like it’s slipping out of my control.The baby is mine.The thought hits me like a punch to the gut. I can’t—I can’t—believe it. Eight weeks, and there’s no way…

“Thank you, doctor,” I hear someone say—Vittorio, maybe Nonna—but their words fade into the background, a blur of sound.

As soon as the doctor leaves, Nonna is on me, her fury a blazing fire. She rushes toward me, her face twisted with disgust. “You devil,” she spits, her voice trembling with righteous anger. “You knew she was carrying your child, and yet you did this to her! You and your demonic family will pay for this!”

The room goes quiet, the weight of her words sinking into my skin. My aunts look pale, guilt written across their faces, and even Vittorio stands still, stunned. But none of it registers. Not the accusations, not the looks. My mind is consumed with one, overwhelming thought.

The baby is mine.

The realization hits me like a freight train, bringing with it a storm of emotions—relief, guilt, love, and a fear so raw it grips my heart. The anger I threw at her, the accusations I hurled without even listening—I did this. I refused to hear her, to trust her, and now...now the woman I love, the mother of my child, is in a hospital bed, fighting for her life because of me.

Shame and anger crash into me, suffocating, drowning me. How could I have let this happen?

I force myself to breathe, my fists clenched so tightly that my nails bite into my palms. The guilt and anger churn inside me, unbearable. But nothing is worse than the suffocating realization that I’ve lost control of everything.

“Once Mirabella is well, once she’s out of here, I will never let her anywhere near you or your family again,” Nonna spits, her words laced with venom.

Her words sting. But so do the accusing gazes of Isabella, Giulia, and Vittorio.

I don’t respond. I can’t. The weight of their fury, their disappointment—it’s too much to bear. Without a word, I turn on my heel and storm out of the waiting room. My chest is tight, my mind a storm of guilt, confusion, and raw anger. But as I walk, a dark, violent thought rises.

Milo.

This is his fault as well as mine.

It’s time to deliver punishment accordingly.

Minutes later, the chaos inside me settles into a sickening calm, the anger now cold, like a winter frost. My legs carry me through the halls, but I don’t even register where I’m going until I’m standing in front of his door.

I push it open slowly, the hinges creaking in the quiet of the night. The moonlight streams through his drawn blinds, casting long shadows across his sleeping form.

In my hand, I grip the gun, knuckles white. My finger hovers over the trigger.

Rage bubbles beneath the surface. Killing him would be so easy, so satisfying—every inch of me wants it. But…

It won’t bring Mirabella back to me. It won’t make her forgive me. It won’t change anything.

But it will ease the gnawing rage and guilt, even if it’s just for a moment. I press my finger to the trigger, the gunshot ringing out, the sound shattering the quiet like a crack in the world.

39

MIRABELLA

Aharsh light seeps through my eyelids, pulling me from the depths of unconsciousness.

My mind stirs, groggy, reluctant, as I hover between awareness and the lingering darkness. I want to groan, but the sound catches somewhere in my throat, refusing to rise.

I can’t move.

My mind is awake, foggy and blurred, yet my body feels pinned down—heavy, sore, and unresponsive.

Eventually, my eyes peel open, squinting against the glare from a harsh overhead bulb. The blinding brightness forces me to blink rapidly until the sterile white of a hospital room sharpens into focus.

The pungent scent of antiseptic and the soft, rhythmic hum of machines press in around me, and a dull throb pulses at the back of my skull.

I slowly turn my head, muscles stiff and resistant, until my gaze lands on a familiar figure slouched in the chair beside me. Ettore. Memories start filtering back in.

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