Page 16 of Dark Mafia Bride

“Mirabella Ricci,” he says, his voice smooth but sharp enough to cut through the hum of conversations and music.

I freeze. My name. How does he know my name?

I turn slowly, heart already racing. Standing beside me is a man who’s presence is commanding. I blink, caught off guard.

“Excuse me?” I manage, my voice smaller than I’d like.

“My boss has a proposition for you,” he says, voice calm, ignoring my confusion entirely like this is an everyday conversation.

“What proposition? And who?—”

“I would prefer to speak with you privately,” he interjects, cutting me off with the weight of authority. His head tilts toward Giovanni, who straightens in his seat as if he’s ready to fight. “Without…unnecessary third parties.”

Giovanni snorts. “Yeah? And I’d like a private island. Neither is happening.”

The man doesn’t respond. Giovanni stands abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor. “Who the fuck do you think you are, anyway?”

The stranger doesn’t flinch, his head turning slowly to Giovanni. Behind the glasses, I feel the intensity of his glare. They stand there locked in a silent standoff, a battle of wills playing out before me.

“Gio,” I whisper, my voice breaking the tension. “Can you give us a minute?”

“What? No!” Giovanni’s disbelief is palpable. “Why the hell would you listen to him?”

Because this man knows my full name, and I have a sinking feeling he knows more than that.

“You’re not seriously thinking about?—”

“I just want to hear what he has to say,” I insist, though my pulse pounds in warning.

“This is a private matter,” the man says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Giovanni looks at me, his protective instincts clearly warring with his common sense. I give him a small nod, placing a hand on his arm, pleading with my eyes. And with a reluctant sigh, he pushes off the stool, muttering curses under his breath, and takes a seat at a nearby booth, his gaze never leaving us.

The man steps closer, his cologne—dark, woodsy, and expensive—filling the space between us. His presence looming as he leans in just enough for only me to hear.

“A marriage deal.”

I blink, taken aback by the bluntness. “Excuse me?”

“My boss has an offer,” he says smoothly. “He wishes to marry you,” he repeats, the words rolling off his tongue as if they’re the most ordinary thing in the world. “In exchange, you’ll be generously compensated.”

I let out a disbelieving laugh, but his expression remains impassive.

“Is this some kind of sick joke?”

“One million dollars up front. One hundred thousand dollars each month for the year you remain married to him.”

The laughter dies in my throat.

“Still think this is a joke? Well, let me tell you what isn’t,” he continues, his tone razor-sharp. “The twenty thousand dollars you owe Abruzzi.”

My breath hitches.

I stare at him, stunned. “How do you?—”

He interrupts. “My boss knows everything. And he’s offering you a way out.”

“You’re bluffing,” I whisper, though my voice lacks conviction.

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