Page 103 of Dark Mafia Bride

I hate how desperate I sound.

Vittorio leans forward, his gaze steady and unwavering. “I still don’t think you know the full story. You need to talk to her. Don’t let this turn into something worse than it is.”

For a moment, I can’t speak. His words linger in the air between us, heavy with a truth I don’t want to face. But deep down, I know he’s right.

I turn away from him, staring out the window at the hazy lights of the city. The early evening is already creeping in, and the thought of going home to see her only deepens the ache in my chest. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

I hear him sigh heavily, his footsteps quiet as he leaves. Alone again, the silence presses in on me. Time drags by. As the darkness outside grows thicker, the thought of facing her grows more unbearable.

I can’t go home. I can’t. The thought of her touch, her voice, her smell—it’s like poison. I can’t stomach it today. I can’t even look at her.

Without thinking, I grab my phone off the table, my fingers moving quickly across the screen as I send her a simple message:

I won’t be home tonight.

The words sting, and yet, there’s a strange kind of relief in sending them.

I make my way to a hotel in town, checking into a room that feels too sterile, too bright—too fucking empty. The walls are so white they almost hurt to look at. I thought being alone would give me peace, give me space to think, but it only amplifies the silence.

I sit there motionless, waiting for something to make sense, but nothing does. The world I thought I understood, the life I thought I was building, is falling apart piece by piece, and I don’t know how to stop it.

35

MIRABELLA

I’m one unlucky bitch.

Why, of all days, did I have to choose today—the one day I finally planned to tell Ettore everything—for him to not come home at all? I was ready to get everything off my chest, but now I’m stuck with this secret lodged in my heart for another night. He doesn’t know, and I feel like I’m drowning in it.

I wake up early, the tightness in my stomach gnawing at me. It’s a weekend, so I know Ettore will come back. He always does. Whatever kept him late last night better be resolved because I need some time alone with my husband. Time to talk. Time to finally breathe.

The seconds tick by, slower than I can stand, each one scraping against me like a dull blade. The clock in the living room chimes loudly—noon—and already, the day feels as if it’s stretched out forever.

My stomach twists tighter with nerves, excitement, and dread. I’ve worked up the courage to tell him everything, and it’s all I can think about. I’m desperate to share it, to finally tell him the truth. He’ll be angry, of course. He has every right to be. But he loves me. He’ll forgive me. After the storm, we can start fresh.

Then, finally, I hear his car. It pulls up in front of the house, and my heart skips. I straighten up, smoothing my hair and glancing at my reflection in the hallway mirror. Paula’s already rushing to the door. The moment he walks in, I can’t wait any longer. I rush toward him.

“Why didn’t you come home last night? I missed you,” I say, throwing my arms around his waist. My voice is soft, but my chest is tight with hope, with need.

But instead of the warmth I’m expecting, there’s nothing. Nothing at all. I wait for him to pull me in, to lift me up, to tell me how hard it was to be apart. I wait for the affection, the familiarity of his embrace. But nothing happens. When I pull away, he just dusts his hand over his suit jacket, barely glancing at me.

“Ettore?” I manage, my voice catching, the words sticking in my throat like they’re too heavy to speak.

Without sparing me another glance, he brushes past me, walking down the hall like I’m not even there. I stand frozen, the world suddenly too quiet, too still. Paula stands there, too, looking between us, but I don’t care. I follow him.

Something’s wrong. Maybe it was a tough day at work. Maybe something with the project. He’s been stressed about it, constantly on the phone with his lawyer, debating over things I don’t even understand. But this...this is different. I can feel it in the air, thick and suffocating. Something’s broken, and it’s not the project. It’s him. It’s me.

He’s mad at me.

“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice small as I follow him into our room. “Did something happen at work?” I keep my tone careful, hoping I don’t push him further away. Whatever’s wrong, I don’t want to make it worse.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at me. Instead, he takes off his jacket like I’m invisible and walks into the bathroomwithout a word. I stand there waiting. My heart pounds, my mind racing through all the possible reasons for this sudden coldness. What could have happened? Did I do something wrong? Does he still love me?

When he steps out of the bathroom, I move toward him, desperate for some connection. I reach out to touch his arm, but the moment my hand brushes his skin, he flinches. He actually pulls away. It feels like a slap on my face, sharp and cold.

The rejection stings deeper than I expected. My throat tightens, and I have to blink hard to hold back the tears. “Ettore, if I did something, just tell me...please.” My voice cracks at the end, a rawness leaking through that I can’t control.

Still nothing. He walks toward the closet, taking his time as if I’m not even in the room. I follow him, a hollow ache spreading through me. I feel so small, so foolish. I keep waiting for him to turn around, to say something—anything—to make sense of all this. But he doesn’t. The silence grows louder, heavier. His back to me, like I don’t even exist.

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