Page 88 of Dark Mafia Bride

He groans into my mouth as I kiss him, pull his lower lip between my teeth, and lick him until he’s panting andcompletely aroused. When I break the kiss and lean back, the thick lust I see in his eyes makes my pussy throb. It’s more than enough to knock the common sense out of me, which is why I’m sliding down to my knees and taking him into my mouth even though I know we’ll be late for the function.

Ettore grunts as I stroke the base of his cock with one hand while taking him slowly into my mouth. His thick, hard length brushes against my walls as I take him in deeper, just the way he likes, until he hits the back of my throat. I hold him there for a few seconds before he pulls away for me to breathe.

“Fuck, Bella,” he grunts, grabbing the back of my head and wrapping my wet hair around his fist. His other hand caresses my mouth as he waits for me to catch my breath. And then he’s pushing his way back in and pulling out to thrust in again. He holds my head in place as he fucks my mouth, and I take all of him in while my hand slides down to massage the throbbing wetness between my legs.

“That’s right, baby,” he rasps as he picks up pace. “Pleasure yourself while I fuck your mouth.”

I moan as he continues to slide in and out of me, his thrusts becoming faster and harder until finally, he shudders and releases his hot cum inside my mouth with a loud grunt. The salty, sweet fluid coats my tongue and slides down my throat, and I feel a shiver roll down my spine as I swallow every single drop.

When he pulls out of my mouth and brings me to my feet, I see the wanton need in his eyes as he bends down to kiss me again. I close my eyes and let him explore my mouth as his fingers spread my ass cheeks open to slide into my pussy from behind. I moan and whimper into his mouth, but then, my mind drifts.

If I don’t stop him now...if I don’t stop this, I know I’m going to loathe myself afterward. So even though my whole bodyprotests against the idea, I place both hands on his chest to push him away.

“Down, boy,” I say with a giggle. “We need to be downstairs in less than twenty minutes now. We can continue this later.”

He groans in protest, but he pulls away from me. For the next few minutes, we both take turns washing our bodies. When we are done showering, Ettore scoops me up and carries me to the bedroom. Our dressing up is filled with laughter and giggles, but somewhere in the pit of my stomach, an uneasy feeling grows.

I’ll miss this. I’ll miss the ease and intimacy that we’ve somehow settled into these past couple of weeks. When the truth comes out, everything will change, and I dread the thought of that.

After we are done getting dressed, Ettore takes my hand in his as he leads us downstairs and to the dining room, where his family members, both nuclear and extended, are seated and waiting. Ettore informed me that this is some sort of family ritual that happens yearly, and obviously as his wife I have to be present.

My stomach twists with discomfort as we enter the room. The faces around the long table—some familiar while others are strangers—fix their eyes on me with a mix of interest and scrutiny. Ettore leads me to the head of the table, where an empty seat waits for him. The chair beside him, where I assume I’m supposed to sit, is occupied by Zia Camilla.

“Zia,” Ettore calls out in a gruff tone as we approach the stern-faced woman.

I know exactly what he’s about to do, and I won’t let him. Not in front of all these people. Not when she already despises me, and making this gesture would only fuel her resentment.

Before Ettore can say another word, I lean up and kiss his cheek. “I’ll sit beside Nonna,” I whisper, keeping my voice low.

He’d invited them to this gathering, and I’m honestly grateful. Having my own family here makes it easier to bear the tension in this room.

He glances down at me, irritation flashing in his eyes. But when I flash him a smile—one that’s soft but firm—he exhales and releases my hand, though I can tell he’s not pleased.

I let out a quiet sigh as I make my way to the far end of the table, where Nonna and my mother sit. When I settle into the chair beside Nonna, she immediately takes my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“You did the right thing, Mira.”

I nod, casting a quick glance around the room at the eyes that are all too aware of our every move. My gaze lands on Zia Camilla, and I don’t miss the way her lips tighten. I saved her from embarrassment, but the anger in her eyes only seems to deepen. She looks like she’s seething at the mere thought of Ettore asking her to vacate her seat for me.

This family gathering is nothing like the cozy ones I’m used to. It’s tense—stiff, even—everyone on edge, measuring each other in silence. Ettore’s family is here, of course, along with a few people I assume are from other Mafia families. When Ettore first told me his family is involved with the Italian Mafia in New York, I wasn’t exactly shocked. Now it makes sense. The man is fiercely protective, intensely private. A man like he is probably has more enemies than friends.

The conversation begins with small talk, the usual chatter about the weather, the food, the upcoming family events. Oil factories here, hotel chains there. A charity gala in need of donations. A foundation looking for support.

But even as the polite conversation flows, Ettore’s relatives continue to fire questions my way. They seem interested in every little detail about me, and I can tell it’s not out of genuinecuriosity. They’re sizing me up, gauging whether or not I’m worthy of Ettore.

I’m halfway through picking at my salad when Zia Camilla turns her gaze on me, her eyes a little too intense. “So, Mirabella,” she begins, her voice dripping with sweetness, “I hear you’re back at Cornell University.”

I give her a steady nod, working hard to keep my face unreadable. “Yes.”

“Hmmm. That must be nice,” Zia Camilla purrs, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Using your marriage to Ettore as an excuse to go back to college.”

“Back?” A woman I don’t recognize asks, her curiosity piqued.

I bite my tongue, but Aunt Francesca leans in as if she’s about to deliver a juicy tidbit. “Mirabella here is a dropout,” she announces.

The table falls into a tense silence—well, our side of the table. I glance across the room at Ettore and the other men, who are engrossed in their conversation. His eyes flicker toward me, and I know he’s aware of the shift in the atmosphere. He looks at his aunts, then back at me. I give him a reassuring smile, signaling that I’m fine. The last thing I want is to interrupt whatever important conversation he’s having just to save me from his aunt’s petty jabs.

Before I can respond, Nonna’s voice rings out, sharp. “Shewasa dropout,” she corrects, her tone stern.

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