Page 129 of Dark Mafia Bride

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MIRABELLA

The first chill of November nips at my skin as I sit on the front porch of our new house. It’s a small place, but compared to where we used to live, it feels like a haven. That thought should be enough to comfort me.

After everything we’ve endured—the fire, moving into the Greco estate, moving out again, and finally landing a stable internship—I’m grateful to afford a place of our own.

The neighborhood is a clear improvement—quieter, safer, with tidy, modest homes lining well-kept streets instead of cracked roads and peeling paint. Our new house even has a little fenced-in yard, and although the wooden swing beneath me creaks with each gentle sway, it feels like a treasure.

I pull my oversized sweater tighter against the cold, my hands instinctively cradling my belly beneath the thick wool. I’m showing much more now, my belly is rounder, firmer, and I’ve become obsessed with caressing its gentle curve.

The fact that I’m pregnant— carrying not one, but two lives within me—still fills me with a mix of disbelief and quiet joy. In just a few months, I’ll be a mother. Giulia will be an aunt, Mamma a grandmother, and Nonna a great-grandmother.Nonna, in particular, I think, is the most excited about my pregnancy.

It’s funny, really, considering how indifferent she was toward Ettore in the beginning. Actually, indifferent might be too generous—downright hostile feels more accurate.

After I was discharged from the hospital, Nonna declared our home aNo Ettore Zone. She wouldn’t let anyone so much as mention his name. When he came to visit, she wouldn’t let him past the front door. The one time she did, she made him stand there like a deliveryman holding the flowers he’d brought me as she stared him down as if she was deciding whether to waterboard him with holy water.

But over time, I’ve watched their dynamic shift. His persistence—and maybe a touch of his tragic “kicked puppy” vibe—seems to have chipped away at her resolve. Her countless sharp jabs and snide comments never fazed him, and somewhere along the line, their verbal sparring turned into a strange, almost endearing routine. The insults softened, the eye rolls became less frequent, and now they actually look forward to outwitting each other.

Imagine my shock when Nonna—Nonna!—became his loudest advocate. She calls him constantly now, pestering him to bring over anything and everything she thinks I might need.

One time, it was pickled artichokes “to prevent cravings.” Another time, an industrial fan “to keep her preciousbis-nipotifrom getting too warm in my belly.”

When I finally confronted her about it, she crossed herself dramatically and went full-on spiritual deflection mode.

“Mia cara,” she said with an exaggerated sigh, “children are a gift from God. Even if their father is a control-obsessed fool with a face like a sad mouse, who am I to judge? I wouldn’t be a good Christian if I didn’t accept him—especially since hepractically lives here now, coming over here every day like some dejected stray cat.”

Her logic was, as always, bulletproof. And now, Ettore is practically part of the family, whether she’ll admit it or not.

The rest of my family has adjusted to him, too. As so have we to his.

Vittorio has made himself the self-appointed curator of our movie nights, dropping by with carefully selected films and snack suggestions. Francesca and Leonardo, meanwhile, have taken Giulia under their wing, helping her settle into her new school since the move. They’ve somehow turned into the older siblings I didn’t realize she needed.

And me? I’m still trying to figure out how to fit into this new life. Alessia and Giovanni stop by occasionally, and their visits are a comfort, but they don’t fully fill the ache I feel for what’s been lost.

I sigh as I watch the neighborhood kids racing their bikes up and down the street. The crisp air carries the scent of freshly cut grass and the faint aroma of whatever masterpiece Nonna is cooking in the kitchen—something involving enough garlic to ward off a small vampire coven. Everything should feel perfect.

And, in many ways, it does.

My family is safe and healthy. The bills are paid. Mamma is recovering better than I’d ever hoped—her medications and treatments are finally within reach, and she’s regaining a vitality I haven’t seen in years. For the first time, we’re experiencing a stability that feels almost miraculous. We’re not rich, but we don’t need to be. Life is finally steady.

And yet, there’s a gnawing emptiness that refuses to go away.

Because he’s not here.

The man I am madly, recklessly in love with.

The man I amstillmarried to.

I miss him. I miss the way his presence fills a room—intense and commanding yet comforting in a way I never thought I’d crave. I miss the way his hands—rough and calloused from years of being so hardened—soften when they touch me, as if I’m the only delicate thing in his entire world.

I miss the way his voice wraps around my name, making it sound like something sacred.

I miss the way he looks at me as though I’m his light in the darkness, even when he’s too proud or too stubborn to say it.

It’s been over two months since everything happened.

Since I left the Greco estate—since I left Ettore. But even in his absence, his presence looms over my life. I see it in the brand-new water heater that mysteriously appeared when we moved in, the weekly deliveries of fresh produce, and how he never misses a doctor’s appointment. Even in his unexpected visits, just to check in, remind me he’s still here in ways I can’t escape.

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