Page 131 of Dark Mafia Bride

Her words strike a nerve, and I look down, tracing aimless patterns in my soup with the spoon. “It’s complicated,” I murmur. “Yes, Ettore has changed, but I don’t know if I can trust it. Or if I can trust myself around him.”

Mamma reaches across the table, her hand warm and steady as it rests over mine. “You’re scared, and that’s understandable,” she says softly. “But love isn’t always supposed to be simple. Sometimes, it’s about taking risks, even when it’s terrifying.”

Her words hang heavy in the air, their weight pressing on my chest. Ettore is a risk—one I’m not sure I have the courage to take again no matter how much every part of me still aches for him.

Long after dinner,Mamma’s words linger in my mind as I rock gently back and forth on the porch swing. The sky is a canvas of deep blues, sprinkled with stars that shimmer like tiny diamonds. The cold air bites at my cheeks, my breath forming soft white clouds in the stillness.

The quiet is broken by the low hum of an approaching car. My heart leaps when I recognize the sleek black vehicle pulling up in front of the white picket fence. Ettore steps out, his tall frame silhouetted against the headlights. He visits regularly, but it doesn’t matter—his presence still always sets my heart racing.

His dark coat flows behind him as he strides into the yard, his black boots crunching softly on the stones and grass.

“Hey,” I greet him softly when he gets to me.

“Hey,” he replies, his voice low and warm. He leans down to press a kiss to my forehead, and his hand instinctively moves to rest on my belly. The simple gesture makes my breath hitch. His hand lingers for a moment, protective and reverent, before he pulls away and sits on the wooden porch beside me.

We’ve been doing this dance for weeks now, but still, I never get used to it.

“How are you? How’s the morning sickness?” he asks, his gaze intense, scanning me as though looking for any signs of distress.

“It’s better now,” I reassure him, giving him a small smile. “I don’t get it as badly as I did during the first trimester. Though, last week was rough. I think I ate something that didn’t quite agree with me. But I’m okay now.”

His jaw tightens slightly, the flicker of concern not escaping my notice. Last week, when he found out how sick I’d been, he’d been furious with me for not telling him sooner—even though the symptoms had only started the day before. He’d rushed me to the doctor without a second thought, his concern evident in every action.

“How was work?” I ask, shifting the focus.

“The usual,” he replies. “I was driving by and thought I’d check in on you.”

I raise an eyebrow, skepticism creeping into my voice. “It’s Sunday and your office isn’t anywhere near my neighborhood, Ettore.”

“Oh really?” He grins, feigning confusion. “Swear I thought I opened a new branch just down the street.”

I stare at him, the playful gleam in his eyes making my heart race. “Ettore…” I warn him, not because I think he’s messing with me, but because I know him too well. He could actually do that—buy an entire freaking building and make it a subsidiary of his company, all just to be closer to me.

The thought makes my stomach flutter, but I keep my voice steady, eyeing him suspiciously. “You’d actually do that, wouldn’t you?”

His smile widens, that trademark glint in his eye. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

I roll my eyes, though I can’t help but laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” he replies, leaning closer. “But I’myourimpossible.”

His smirk widens, but then he shifts, his voice dropping into something more sincere. “Well, you’re right,” he says, a small, teasing smile playing on his lips. “I just wanted to see you. Had a shitty day and figured I should be around what makes me happy.”

The glint in his eyes sends a shiver down my spine, and for a brief moment, I forget everything else, my breath catching in my chest.

He’s always had that effect on me. The way he looks at me—as if I’m the only thing in the world that matters.

I don’t say anything after that, because, well, I don’t have anything to say.

His honesty—and the way his eyes glint with something gives me butterflies—leaves me momentarily breathless. We’ve already had the conversation about boundaries. I told him to stop confessing his feelings or asking me to come back. If I were to return, it will be on my terms, not because I feel pressured.

It will be at the right time.

An uncomfortable silence stretches between us, thick with everything we’re not saying. It’s one of those things I still haven’t gotten used to—the awkwardness, the tension, the discomfort. But most of all, it’s the undeniable clarity that we still want each other, even after everything.

I catch myself wanting to say something, anything, to fill the space between us. But the words get stuck, tangled up with all the jumbled thoughts swirling in my mind. His gaze lingers on me, and for a moment, it feels like we’re on the edge of something.

Neither of us moves, but the air feels charged. There’s a pull, a magnetic force we can’t ignore, even if we tried. But how do we bridge the gap between us? How do we move past the mess we’ve made of things?

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