Page 51 of Dark Mafia Bride

As I come to stand before him, the officiant begins to speak. Everything blurs around me as my pulse thrums in my ears, drowning it all out. I want to run, but my legs stay rooted in place. This is happening. I signed the contract, and just a few minutes ago, he agreed to all the terms I laid out for him.

One year.

One year, and I’m done.

I can do this.

When the officiant nods toward Ettore, I know it’s time for him to speak. His voice is deep, calm, and steady, and I sense a tinge of emotion in them.

He’s a fucking good actor.

“I, Ettore Greco, take you, Mirabella, to be my wife,” he says, his intense eyes never leaving mine. His words are slow and deliberate, like he means every syllable. “I promise to protectyou, to stand by you, and to claim you as mine, for as long as we live.”

A shiver runs down my spine at the possessiveness in his tone.

For as long as we live.

My gaze flickers to his tie as I’m unable to look into his eyes. Unease twists in my gut. I’ve never been religious, but lying before an altar? That’s something else. I’m not sure what I expected, but his vows hit me harder than I thought they would.

The officiant turns to me now, and I realize it’s my turn. My mouth feels dry, like the words the wedding planner made me repeat over and over again yesterday are stuck in my throat—the words I never thought I would be saying since I was so sure I would escape. I take a shaky breath, forcing myself to meet Ettore’s gaze.

One year.

“I, Mirabella, take you, Ettore, to be my husband. I promise...to honor you, to stand by you, and...to fulfill the promises we make today.” The words stumble out, far more confident than I thought I would sound.

Ettore’s face remains unreadable, but his eyes stay locked on me, thick with an emotion I find hard to decipher. If I didn’t already know this was fake, I would think I could read the look in his eyes as one of adoration and love.

The officiant asks for the rings. My fingers tremble as Ettore slides the cold metal band onto my finger. I look down at it. It’s a beautiful ring with a golden band and an emerald stone in the middle. When I slip his ring onto his finger, my hand brushes his, and a jolt of something shoots down my spine.

The officiant’s voice cuts through the haze. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride.”

Kiss.My heart races even faster as Ettore steps closer. The last time we kissed was that night—the night he saved me, the night I thought I gave a part of myself to him thinking that I would never see him again.

His hand cups my cheek, and for a moment, time slows. I catch my breath, staring up at him as he leans in. He brushes his lips against mine once, twice, until my arms move without my will, circling around his neck to pull him in. I hear him chuckle lightly before his lips consume mine.

His fingers trace the curve of my waist as we kiss hungrily, ignoring the presence of everyone in the room. My hands grip his tuxedo jacket, and I bite back a moan as one hand comes down to circle my neck while the other slides dangerously close to my hips. I hear him groan softly, the sound sending a shiver through me, a rush of heat flooding between my thighs.

Just then, applause, alongside hoots and hollers, explodes around us. I break off the kiss with an abruptness that leaves me dizzy for a few seconds. I kissed him like that...let him kiss me like that, in front of everyone!

He draws back slowly, and I feel the faintest brush of his breath against my lips before he finally releases me. My cheeks burn, and I can’t bear to meet his gaze, afraid of what he might see reflected in my eyes.

“That was...” the officiator coughs. “Some kiss.” He directs us through the next steps of the ceremony, but I barely register any of it. My mind swirls with questions, with doubts about whether I can really survive this marriage unscathed. But in a flash, Ettore’s hand is guiding me, leading me down the aisle together as husband and wife.

I catch a glimpse of Ettore’s smirk, which only deepens when he sees me glaring at him.

As we walk, he leans down to whisper, “See? You’ve made it through the first hurdle.” His voice holds a note of satisfaction, a reminder of our deal—and his win.

I swallow, fighting the instinct to respond with something biting.

Once we’re outside the cathedral, the press surges forward, their cameras flashing, voices calling our names. Ettore’s arm slides around my waist, pulling me close, his hold more possessive than supportive. We’re caught in this strange public performance, and I feel the weight of his grip as if it’s a brand.

“Smile for the camera, wifey,” he murmurs, pulling me to his side as we face the congregation. “The show must go on, especially after the wonderful kiss we just shared.”

It’s official. I hate him. I hate that he’s enjoying this. I hate that a part of me enjoys it, too.

The applause gets louder as we walk hand-in-hand, and my heart races.

“I think you enjoyed that more than you’d like to admit,” he remarks, his tone low and challenging.

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