Page 116 of Dark Mafia Bride

She’s sitting at the front desk, her fingers dancing across the keyboard with a familiar intensity I used to admire so much. She looks tired. There are faint shadows under her eyes, her complexion flushed from the exhaustion. But even in this state, she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

I can’t help but watch her for a moment, taking in the subtle changes since the last time I saw her. Her clothes fit her differently now—more snugly, showing off the curves of her body and her protruding tummy. I notice it all—the way her blouse clings to her chest, the way her hips fill out her tailored trousers.

She doesn’t see me yet. And for a moment, I let myself justseeher. Really see her, like I haven’t in weeks. It’s obvious that she likes her new job by the way she smiles genuinely whentalking to her colleagues, but when our eyes finally meet, her face immediately hardens, that familiar coolness returning.

“Ettore,” she says, her voice clipped. “What are you doing here?”

I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I take a step closer, noticing her posture. Her back is straight, but she’s clearly been standing for far too long.

“Do you stand all day?” I ask, trying to keep the concern out of my voice, though it’s impossible.

She blinks, clearly thrown off. “What?”

“You shouldn’t stand for hours like that, Mirabella. It’s not good for you…”

Her eyes flash, and I can see she’s already shutting me out, the walls going up.

“So, you came all the way here to tell me how to do my job?” Her voice is sharp now, defensive. “How did you even find out where I work?”

I can feel the heat rising in my chest. Her tone stings, but I force myself to stay calm.

“You’re monitoring me,” she accuses.

“I’m not?—”

“So you’re stalking me?” She cuts me off, her words like a slap to the face. “Why am I even surprised?”

I clench my teeth. “I’m not stalking you, Mirabella.” The words come out slower than I expect, but they’re true. I’m not, not in the way she means. But damn, I wish she could understand how much I’ve tried to respect her space, even if that means keeping a distance I hate.

I may have asked her boss to keep an eye on her for me, and I may have reached out to Nonna and Isabella a million times since she blocked me, but that’s it. I didn’t send Luca or any of my men to watch over her.

“And why should I believe you?” She crosses her arms, her eyes narrowing.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing, okay?”

She doesn’t look at me when she replies, her fingers moving furiously over the keyboard. “As you can see, I’m fine. Busy.”

Her coldness hits me harder than I expect. Idosee how she’s doing—too damned well. Too well for my own peace of mind. It infuriates me. She doesn’t need to work here—hell, she doesn’t need to work at all. She’s juggling a full-time job, college, and the pregnancy, and she’s doing it all on her own, stubbornly refusing any help.

The pay here is garbage, and the thought of her struggling like this, when I could make everything so much easier for her, drives me insane. It’s maddening that she refuses to accept a single cent of what I send. Instead, she sends it all back, along with a tiny bits of what she calls her “debt owed,” as if she thinks she owes me something. She doesn’t.

She’s trying to pay me back what she claims she owes me for the few months we stayed together while I covered her bills, and the mere thought of that is as annoying as it is funny.

She’s so damned stubborn.

And yet…I can’t help but admire her. Even in this moment, even when she’s pushing me away, I admire her for her pride. But God, it’s making this harder than I thought it would be. It’s absurd, and yet I can’t stop caring. I can’t stop wanting to take care of her.

But I won’t push it. Not now. I’ll keep letting her send her so called ‘debt owed,’ and then I’ll wait until the end of the month to return it all. And more—much more. She and her family will have everything they need. Our children will have everything they need.

I clear my throat, trying to push past the weight in my chest. “Can we talk... later?” I ask her quietly.

Her silence is an answer I know too well. The dismissal. The contempt.

“I’ll be here when your shift ends,” I add, but I don’t expect her to respond. She doesn’t.

So, I wait outside, in my car, parked across the street where I can watch the door. Time crawls by. I watch the sun dip lower, and with it, my patience thins. Conversations run through my mind, my words rehearsed and reshaped. I’m not sure how long it’s been, but when she finally steps through the front doors, my heart stutters. She’s holding her work bag with one arm, her eyes scanning the parking lot, and she’s beautiful in the fading sunlight. The glow around her makes my chest tighten, but I push the feeling away. I can’t let her go. Not like this.

I walk toward her, and she sees me before I get too close. Her expression tightens, and her lips purse as if she’s trying to stop herself from saying something sharp.

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