Page 60 of Dark Mafia Bride

There’s a thick silence between us, and for a moment, neither of us knows what to say.

Finally, she clears her throat before turning to look at me. “I’m going to take a shower.”

I nod, watching as she gathers her things and slips into the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind her, and all I can think about now is the image of her naked body under the water.

A groan escapes my lips as I sit down on the edge of the bed, my mind racing with the possibilities. But I push those thoughtsaway, reminding myself that our marriage is strictly business, and nothing of that sort will ever happen between us again.

After what feels like an eternity, she emerges from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her chest, damp hair and skin flushed from the steam. I force myself to look away, keeping my eyes on the opposite wall as she moves around the room, pretending I’m not here, and for both our sakes, I do the same.

Eventually, I head to the bathroom myself. I need a cold shower—cold enough to wash away any lingering arousal. The steam from her shower still lingers in the air, and as I stand there in the fogged-up shower for a few minutes, just inhaling her scent, rich and intoxicating.

Realizing I’ve been standing here too long, I turn on the shower, cranking the temperature down to the coldest setting. The ice-cold water cascades down my back, and I scrub my body with a loofah, desperately trying to erase every trace of her touch and the thoughts swirling in my mind.

But even as I scrub, I know it won’t be that easy.

When I finally return to the room, I see Mirabella already tucked into bed, my covers pulled up to her chin. She’s turned away from my side of the bed, her body curled into itself as if trying to create as much distance as possible. The sight tugs at something in my chest.

I change into my pajamas and slip into bed beside her, careful to keep my distance. But the mere fact that she’s so close makes it impossible to relax. The tension between us is thick, heavy, like a weight pressing down on my chest. I can feel the heat radiating from her body and hear the sound of her heavy breathing.

“Pull yourself together,”I whisper to myself, fighting the urge to pull her against me.

Time stretches on—seconds feel like minutes, minutes drag into hours—as I lie there in the darkness. My mind spins, replaying the very things it’s not supposed to.

Finally, I begin to drift into sleep. Slowly. Torturously. It’s a bittersweet reality—the only woman I’ve ever desired lies so close to me, yet somehow, she feels a world away.

19

MIRABELLA

Being married to a wealthy man comes with perks I never imagined. My marriage to Ettore was primarily about survival. All I initially thought I could gain from him was protection and money for my mother’s treatment, to take care of my family, and to finally go back to college.

But one perk I hadn’t anticipated was attending high-profile events. In the week since our marriage, I’ve gone with him to everything from charity galas to exclusive balls.

Today, we find ourselves at a horse racing event.

Horse racing—the kind of sport only the rich can indulge in.

The sun beats down on the arena, its heat baking the ground beneath my feet as we weave through the buzzing crowd. Laughter and low murmurs drift across the wide expanse of the racecourse. I’m struck by the opulence around me—the sharp suits and elegant dresses everywhere I look. Everyone here exudes money, power, and privilege.

Ettore tightens his grip on my hand as we navigate the field. “You know, I attend events like this at least once a month,” he tells me, a hint of pride in his voice.

I suspect it’s less about the sport and more about mingling with other wealthy attendees.

I scan the vast green field, taking in the horses glistening in the sunlight. I never realized horses could be so beautiful and majestic. They look well-fed, their coats gleaming with health and strength.

I stifle a laugh at the irony of my situation. Just weeks ago, I was buried in debt, feeling hopeless. Now, here I am at a posh horse racing event, admiring the shine on the horses. It’s astounding how quickly priorities shift when problems seem to disappear. Except, are all my problems actually solved?

The track stretches out, a wide expanse of reddish dirt that looks far more polished than anything I’ve seen on TV. But it’s not the horses that capture my attention. It’s the people. Wealthy investors, influential figures—this place feels like a playground for businessmen involved in dubious dealings.

Ettore looks completely at ease. Why wouldn’t he? This is his turf.

He guides me to the grandstand, secures a seat with a perfect view of the field, and leans down to press a gentle kiss on my forehead before walking away. I know he’s here for an important meeting, not just to watch the races, and I’m aware he has a bodyguard somewhere in the crowd keeping an eye on me.

I watch as he strides toward a group of men I vaguely recognize from other events. He’s in his element. The way even older men pay rapt attention whenever he begins to speak. It does something to my insides.

Today, he’s dressed casually yet classy. No suit jacket or tie; instead, he wears a crisp white T-shirt tucked into dark blue jeans. His long hair is pulled back, with a few strands artfully falling across his forehead. I catch a glint from his Rolex as he raises a champagne glass to his lips, taking a slow sip.

Across the rows of bleachers, our eyes lock. My breath catches as he looks at me as if he hadn’t just left moments ago. There’s something electrifying in his gaze.

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