Dark Mafia Bride: Chapter 34

The office is drowned in darkness, the blinds pulled shut like a barrier between me and the sunlight I can’t even bear to look at today. My head is pounding, my thoughts a muddled mess as I stare at the cluttered papers on my desk. The voices of my family, my so-called family, loop relentlessly in my mind.

“Mirabella is cheating on you.”

The words feel like a punch to the gut, stealing the air from my lungs. I don’t want to believe it. I can’t. But the evidence is right there in front of me—those damned photos.

My aunts’ cruel words haunt me, each one more biting than the last, as they play over and over in my head. Every sneer, every judgment cutting deeper than I ever thought possible.

“I told you, Ettore,” Zia Camilla spits, pacing in front of me like a caged animal. “I warned you. But you refused to listen. Did you really think someone like her could ever be the wife you needed? Did you think she’d bring any kind of stability to your life?”

“She was raised by a single mother,” Aunt Francesca adds with a sniff, her voice dripping with disdain. “Clearly, she had no idea what a stable marriage should look like.”

“Exactly why she was never good enough for you,” Aunt Marta sneers, her words sharp as a knife. “She should never have been allowed in this family.”

“She’s trash, Ettore…”

“Not just a cheat. She’s a liar, a manipulator, a gold digger…”

“And you? You were so kind to her. So generous with her and her family. She repaid you by betraying you—betraying all of us.”

“She didn’t even have the decency to wait until your marriage had a chance to breathe before showing her true colors.”

A growl escapes from deep in my chest. In one violent sweep, I send everything on my desk crashing to the floor. The sound of paper and glass shattering fills the silence like a thunderclap. My fingers dig into the bridge of my nose, trying to hold it together, but the image of Zia Camilla’s smug face as she threw that damned file at me keeps flashing in my mind. The way she looked at me with satisfaction, the smugness in her tone as she told me she’d been right all alone, and the photos…

I hadn’t been prepared for the photos.

Fuck.

I wish I could forget, wipe my mind clean. But the images are burned into my brain, replaying over and over again. I can feel the glossy paper still in my hand. I can still remember her smile, her laugh, the flower-patterned dress I bought her. I can’t shake the memory of her lips—those lips I once worshipped—pressed against another man’s.

Not just any man, either. The same American she’d sworn meant nothing. The same one I saw her with just weeks ago, the one I had no reason to suspect.

My stomach churns violently, the taste of bile rising in my throat as I remember each photo. The way his hands—filthy hands—touched her. The way he’d wiped away her tears, holding her face in his palms as if she were the most precious thing in the world. It makes me sick.

How could I have been so blind? How could I have trusted her so completely, so easily? Every time I thought I was protecting her, every time I felt guilty for not being good enough for her, I’d been the one being played.

My stomach twists again as my eyes scan the floor. I see the pregnancy test. Zia Camilla had handed it to me with such pleasure. The smirk on her face never faded as she confirmed my worst fear.

“Found it in her trash,” she’d said, with a shake of her head. “Unused, but clearly a sign of her secrets.”

And that’s when I told them all to get out. I couldn’t bear to see their satisfaction, the victory in their eyes as they watched me fall apart. But there was no denying it anymore.

Mirabella is pregnant…with another man’s child.

Questions swarm in my head, each one more suffocating than the last, dragging me deeper into a hole I can’t climb out of.

Mirabella and I have only been together for a handful of nights. Three times. The first night we fucked I’d used protection. The second and third times where I’d gone without bare only happened a week ago. If she suspected she was pregnant, it couldn’t have been from those last two times. And if she didn’t use the test right away, she must have already known.

That leaves only one possibility: him. Milo. The man in the pictures. The man who’s now a part of this twisted mess.

How long had she been playing me? Had this always been her plan? To use me for my money, then run back to her lover the moment our marriage was over? Was that why she’d told me she was on birth control? Or had she planned to lie, to say that Milo’s baby was mine? To trap me? To milk me dry until there was nothing left?

The questions flood in, relentless, each one more bitter and cutting than the last. I’d opened my heart to her. I’d loved her. I’d thought we had something real. I’d waited for her…

My phone buzzes in my pocket, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts. I pull it out, barely able to focus as I see an incoming message from a client.

Get it together, Ettore, a harsh voice whispers in my ear.

And I try. I fucking try.

I manage to pick up the mess on the floor, pushing the scattered papers and files back onto my desk, trying to restore some sense of order. Then, I force myself into a scheduled online meeting. But my mind is elsewhere, lost in a fog of confusion and hurt. Twenty minutes of Skype, and I can barely remember a word anyone said. I sign the wrong documents, send the wrong emails.

I’m a damned mess.

A heavy knock echoes against the door a moment later, and before I can react, it swings open. Vittorio steps in, his eyes scanning the room with his usual confidence, but then they soften when he sees me.

“You look like shit. And why the fuck is it so dark in here?” He strides over, yanking the blinds open. The sudden light slices through the room, and I flinch, like it’s burning my skin.

He walks back to the desk, sitting across from me, his gaze sharp. “I saw Zia Camilla, Francesca, and Marta leaving. What the hell’s going on?”

I push the file across the table without a word, watching as he flips it open, pulling the photos out and examining them. His brow furrows as confusion and sympathy cloud his expression. He lets out a heavy breath, then looks back at me, shaking his head.

“I don’t buy this.”

“What…?” I choke out, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.

“And I’m shocked you’re buying into this nonsense. You know Aunt Camila,” he continues, his tone measured but firm. “She hates Mirabella. Hates being wrong even more. You know how she is.”

He lifts one of the pictures between his fingers.

“This isn’t what it looks like⁠—”

My harsh laugh cuts him off before he can say whatever bullshit he was about to spew.

“I’ll tell you exactly what it looks like.” I snatch the picture from his hand, my finger stabbing at the faces in the frame. “This is my wife, Mirabella, kissing another man. The same man I saw her with a few weeks ago, all cozy with him. I asked her about him, and she lied to my face. Told me he was just a friend.”

Vittorio leans back, his expression softening slightly, as though he’s trying to calm the storm he sees brewing. “The picture could be taken out of context, Ettore. I’m just saying, you shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions. Why don’t you talk to her first?”

“Talk to her?” I snap, my voice sharper than I intend. “Why, Vittorio? So I can hear her tell me more lies? So she can look me in the eye and deny everything like she did before?”

“You’re overreacting, brother.”

“Oh, fuck you, Vittorio.” I stand suddenly, pacing the office, feeling my frustration boil over. “What the hell do you even know? You’re so high up in your happy little world, you don’t see how shitty people really are. That’s why I never let you get mixed up in family business. You’re just a child.”

“I’m a child?” He stands too, his voice biting. “Oh, please. Show me how to be an adult. A grown man like you gets handed pictures of his wife’s infidelity from the same people who hate her guts, and instead of even giving her the benefit of the doubt, you go ahead and blindly believe them. Why? Because you’re too afraid to look like some simp?”

“That’s not⁠—”

“No, tell me I’m wrong,” he cuts me off. “Tell me this isn’t about you being scared to love someone the way our father did. That in your twisted head, admitting you’re a different person because of your feelings makes you weak.”

“Just shut up, Vittorio,” I mutter, my hands clenched at my sides. “Father’s life and love for our mother have nothing to do with this.”

He shakes his head slowly, disappointment in his eyes. “You’re even weaker than I thought, brother. What would it cost you to just talk to her first? I’m sure she has a reasonable explanation.”

His words hit harder than they should, and I let out a shaky breath, my chest tight with emotion I can’t keep inside any longer. “I loved her, Vittorio. Hell, I still love her. I thought she loved me too. I should’ve seen the signs when she kept shutting me out. I thought she was just sad because of how the family treated her. I thought she was nervous, dealing with the pressure of being newly married, of all the scrutiny. I even killed for her…” My voice cracks, and I hate the weakness I can’t hide.

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.