Page 113 of Dark Mafia Bride

Dinner, the argument that came afterward, the door slamming behind me as I stormed out.

I was leaving him.

Determined.

And yet here I am, with the very man I’d been desperate to escape, hovering like a shadow.

I guess the universe was strongly against that because why am I here with said man whose presence makes my heart clench painfully with the cutting words he’d said earlier.

The man I love.

For a long, silent moment, I just watch him. He’s still wearing last night’s clothes—a T-shirt and sweatpants, wrinkled and clinging to his form. His hair, long and slightly wild, falls messily over his face, covering tired, hollowed eyes. He looks as if he hasn’t slept in days, his jaw shadowed with dark stubble that’s grown thick. There’s a weariness about him, a weight that makes his strong features look somehow...fragile. As if he’s aged overnight.

With effort, I shift, inching up in bed, and the subtle rustling is enough to rouse him. His eyes snap open, instantly locking onto mine. Relief floods his expression, as if the weight of the world has been lifted from him in that single, painful moment. He straightens quickly, jerking upright in the chair. His hands twitch, reaching for me, then faltering, dropping uselessly to his sides.

“Mirabella,” he whispers, his voice rough. “You’re awake.” His words crack around the edges, and the sound twists something deep in my chest.

He exhales sharply, and despite himself, reaches forward, his fingers brushing the edge of my cheek. “How are you feeling? Are you...in pain? The doctor said you have a concussion. Does your head hurt?”

I flinch, instinctively pulling away from his touch. His hand freezes, a flicker of hurt crossing his face, but he tries to hide it. “I’m fine,” I rasp, though we both know it’s far from true.

His gaze sweeps over me, lingering on my face as if he’s trying to memorize every detail, every line. “You scared me,” he murmurs, so softly it’s almost a confession. “You have no idea how frightened I was.”

His vulnerability pricks at my resolve, stirring something that wants to soften, but I shove the feeling down. His concern is touching, but it doesn’t erase what’s been said, what’s been broken between us. “You don’t have to be here,” I manage, forcing my voice to stay steady, even though my heart pounds erratically.

His face falls, the color draining as if I’ve slapped him. He looks shattered, his mouth opening and closing as he struggles to find words.

“Bella...I’m sorry,” he says, voice trembling. “I’m so sorry. I know I can’t take back what I said. I know I can’t fix everything with just words.” He swallows hard, the rawness of his regret bleeding into his tone. “But please, just tell me what I can do to make this right.”

I take a deep breath, swallowing down the ache in my chest. “Leave,” I say softly, the single syllable dragging out painfully.

He doesn’t flinch this time. He just stares at me, jaw tightening as though bracing for a storm. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, his voice firm, unwavering. “I’m going to fix this.”

I turn my head, refusing to let him see the cracks that are starting to show. “Fix this?” I repeat, disbelief lacing my words. “Do you even realize what your actions have cost us? What they’ve done to us?” My voice trembles with emotions I can’t quite contain. Fear, anger, uncertainty—everything floods over me again.

Ettore’s fists clench, his shoulders stiffening as he looks away. “I know I’ve hurt you,” he admits, his voice barely awhisper. “I made a terrible mistake. But I swear, I’ll make things right.”

I scoff, the bitterness in my words coming out sharper than I intend. “Make it right? You think your apologies can undo everything that’s happened? Can you just erase the things you said to me? Pretend none of it ever happened?”

I see the hurt flash in his eyes, but I can’t bring myself to care. Not now. Not after everything.

“You wouldn’t believe me when I tried to tell you the truth,” I continue, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “You accused me of cheating. You called me a gold-digging whore.” My chest tightens at the memory, and I clutch my hand over my heart, trying to soothe the pain inside me.

His face twists in pain, and I want to stop—want to reach out and tell him I don’t mean it, that the anger is just the aftermath of everything that’s broken between us. But I can’t. I can’t let him off the hook this time.

Ettore’s eyes follow my every movement, his gaze locked on me with an intensity that feels almost suffocating. With each subtle shift, I can feel the weight of his broken heart pressing down on me.

When his eyes snap back to mine, something shifts in his expression. There’s a flicker of something dark and desperate beneath the pain, and for a moment, I wonder if it’s regret or anger—or maybe both. “I know I can’t fix everything I’ve said and done,” he says, his voice low, the words slow and deliberate. “But I’ll do whatever it takes.” His sincerity is so raw, it almost terrifies me.

I can hear the desperation in his voice, as if he’s teetering on the edge of something real, and it’s almost enough to pull me in. Almost.

But a part of me—maybe the part that’s been hurt too many times—won’t let me believe him. It won’t let me trust that thingscould be different. I can’t be the kind of woman who keeps accepting this, who keeps allowing a man to hurt her only to promise change when it’s already too late.

The silence between us stretches out, until the door creaks open, breaking the tension. The doctor steps in, her face a mask of calm professionalism, clipboard in hand. She’s wearing light blue scrubs, and she gives me a polite, practiced smile.

“Good morning, Mrs. Greco. I see you’re awake now. How are you feeling?” Her voice is calm, almost soothing, but I can’t focus on anything but the tightness in my chest.

I sit up a little straighter, suddenly aware of the exhaustion in my limbs, and the sharp ache that still lingers in my head.

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