Page 22 of Dark Mafia Bride

“That’s true,” he agrees, and the way he glances at her with that soft look in his eyes, tells me he’s completely honest. It’s nice seeing them like this—happy. They’ve been through their share of rough patches, but they’ve managed to always come out stronger.

“Are you coming with us?” Alessia asks as they head back to the car.

I shake my head, though it’s tempting. “Nah, you two lovebirds enjoy yourselves. I’ll take the bus.”

“You sure?” Alessia frowns slightly.

“Yup, my place is totally out of your way, anyway.”

“All right, but you have to come by soon. Promise?”

“Promise,” I say, smiling. “I’ll visit, don’t worry.”

They climb into the car and wave goodbye as it pulls away, leaving me standing under the neon glow of the laundromat sign. For a moment, I think about how easy it would have been to hop in with them, but I’d feel guilty making them drive out of their way at this hour.

I turn toward the bus stop and start walking. My feet ache from these stupidly expensive shoes, and all I want is to get home, curl up in bed, and sleep. Thankfully, it’s not too late—thanks to that strange guy who made me leave the club early. I can still get enough rest before I have to wake up for my shift tomorrow.

As I approach the bus stop, I spot the sign in the distance. The occasional flicker of the nearby streetlight gives the scene an eerie feel, even though it’s only 8 p.m. My heels click against the gravel road as I make my way to the stop. A gust of wind rushes past me, sending a cold shiver down my spine. It doesn’t help that I’m dressed so lightly in this flimsy sequined dress.

I’m almost at the stop when I notice a shadowy figure sitting at the far end of the street on a bench under the flickering light. My pace slows as a tight knot of unease forms in my stomach. It’s only when I get closer that I see the soft glow of a cigarette in the person’s hand.

When the streetlight flickers back on, its light catches the edge of his sharp profile. My stomach tightens. It’s him.

Ettore.

I stop for a second as my heart begins to race in my chest. I watch him bring the cigarette to his lips again. His cheekshollow slightly as he inhales, holding it for a few moments before exhaling. I’m captivated by the way the smoke curls upward lazily before vanishing into the night air. I never knew smoking could be so... mesmerizing.

But I know it’s not just the cigarette. It’s him.

He’s seated casually on a low concrete bench, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His long black hair is pulled back tonight, with a few wavy strands escaping and falling over his face. The short scruff lining his jaw adds a rugged edge to his appearance. He wears a black button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal his muscular forearms. A thick black coat rests on the arm of the bench, adding to his striking look.

I force my legs to move. The sound of my shoes draws his attention, and that’s when he turns to look at me.

For a second, I can’t breathe. His hazel eyes pierce through the dim light, locking onto mine. My stomach flutters, and warmth creeps up my neck. My mind races back to that night—the heat of his body against mine, the way his rough hands explored my skin, the way he filled me up with his?—

Get a fucking grip, Mirabella.

I straighten my posture and walk toward him, trying to keep my cool even though I’m anything but calm inside.

“Are you following me?” I ask, crossing my arms to hide my nerves. I’m relieved that my voice comes out sounding steady even as my heart pounds rapidly in my chest.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes his time, trailing his eyes over me in that slow, intense way that makes my body heat up. My breathing quickens as his gaze lingers on my bare legs, and I’m flooded with memories of his face between them when he made me orgasm for the first time that night.

He clenches his jaw and flicks the cigarette onto the ground, crushing it under his boot.

“You ran off before I woke up.”

His words hit me like a challenge. His tone is casual, but there’s an edge to it. He leans back slightly, waiting for my response.

“I don’t remember making any promises to stick around,” I reply calmly, even though my nerves are anything but.

“Plus,” I continue when he doesn’t say anything, “you didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m not following you,” he says, leaning forward now, his elbows resting on his knees. “But I could ask you the same thing. What were you doing at that club?”

My heart skips a beat. The club. Had he seen me there?

“I didn’t realize you owned it,” I reply, keeping my face as neutral as possible.

---