Dark Mafia Bride: Chapter 38

Don’t leave me, Mirabella. Don’t you fucking leave me.

The words beat in my head, relentless, like a drum I can’t escape. I run toward the waiting car, my wife unconscious in my arms. Her limp body presses against mine, and I hold her as if she’s the last thing tethering me to reality, the last breath of fresh air in a world that’s drowning.

My world is drowning.

Her hair brushes against my neck, soft and familiar, but it feels like a ghost against my skin. I press my lips to her temple, whispering things I don’t even hear, my heart pounding too loudly to make sense of the words.

“Please,” I choke out. “I’m sorry…please, Mirabella. Just stay with me.”

Her lashes tremble, but her eyes stay closed. Her skin is too pale, and the bruise already forming on her jaw—so dark, so wrong—makes my stomach churn. I see her family and mine standing in the distance, their faces frozen in shock and fear. Nonna’s voice rings out, frantic, echoing into the night, but I don’t hear her, nr the way Isabella clutches Giulia in her arms while they both sob.

I don’t hear anything except the urgent thud of my own heartbeat, the cold pressure of her body in my arms.

All I can think is I need to get her to a hospital. I need her to wake up. I need her to live.

I climb into the back seat, holding her tight against me, cradling her like a fragile thing. Luca slams the car into gear and speeds through the streets, weaving between traffic with a ferocity that borders on madness. The world blurs around us—lights, shadows, the low hum of the city. My pulse races, a wild, desperate thing beating against the confines of my chest.

My hands are firmly clutching Mirabella’s cold ones as she lies in my arms. The way she never squeezes back when I squeeze her, the way her cold skin feels against mine, sends me into a fit of panic that I try to keep on a leash.

I’ve never felt anything like this before. This panic, this horror, this fear.

Is this what love truly feels like? How could something so sweet and wholesome, something that made my heart full in ways I’d never experienced, something that made me feel more alive than I have ever felt in my thirty-two years of living, be the same thing that digs painfully into my spine, the same thing that spreads like acid in the pit of my stomach, the same thing that makes the air thinner and thinner as I struggle to breathe?

I’ve faced enemies, betrayals, gunfire, but this… this feeling of complete helplessness is more terrifying than any bullet. I take lives and let people live, yet I can’t do anything to save the woman I love.

Seventeen minutes, forty seconds.

That’s how long we’ve spent so far in the literal hell that is this drive. As every second drags on, heavy and relentless, like a countdown. I want to scream, to punch something, anything, to let out the storm raging inside me. Guilt gnaws at me, sharper than any knife, twisting in my gut.

It’s all my fault.

The thought claws at me, relentless. If only…if only I’d said something else, done something different. If I hadn’t let my anger make me say things that cut deeper than I realized.

You got exactly what you wanted, you monster.

I run my thumb across her cheek, a trembling gesture, desperate. I need her to open her eyes. To scream at me, to hate me. Anything.

Just don’t let her slip away. Not like this. Not because of me.

I keep touching her with the same hands that have spilled blood, the hands that don’t deserve to be anywhere near her tonight. But I can’t stop. Maybe—maybe if I keep touching her, she’ll come back to me.

“Stay with me, amore,” I beg, my voice cracking, raw. “Don’t you dare leave me. Not now. Not ever.”

Nineteen minutes, two seconds.

The hospital looms ahead, its bright lights cutting through the night like a beacon. As the car screeches to a stop outside the emergency entrance, I burst through the doors, my voice raw and frantic as I shout for help.

“Please, someone! Help us!”

My words are a desperate scream, but I don’t care. I can barely hear myself over the pounding of my heart. In seconds, medical staff rush forward with a stretcher, an oxygen mask, and a portable oxygen tank. For the first time in the last torturous twenty minutes, I am forced to let her go.

They take her from my arms, and I feel the cold emptiness of my hands. Her limp body is transferred to the stretcher, and they wheel her away from me, urgency in every step they take. I want to scream, to chase them, but I can’t. My legs feel like lead as I stagger after them.

They push her through double doors, and I try to follow, but two nurses block my way.

“I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t go in⁠—”

“You’ll be sorry if you don’t let me in,” I growl, the words slipping out before I can stop them. But before I can move, Luca’s grip is on my shoulder, firm and unyielding.

“Boss,” he says quietly, but there’s an edge to his voice. For the first time since he started working for me, I hear the emotion there.

“Let me go,” I snarl, struggling against his hold, my voice cracking with the weight of it all. “I need to be with her.”

Just then, I hear footsteps behind me—heavy, measured steps. I turn, and my heart drops when I see Vittorio, flanked by Isabella, Giulia, Nonna, Aunt Francesca, and Zia Camilla.

Isabella crumples into sobs, her body trembling as Giulia holds her hand tightly. Nonna stands rigid, fury and pain radiating from her like heat. Her eyes lock onto me, full of accusation, and the sight of their grief twists the knife in my chest.

But none of that matters. Not right now. My entire world has narrowed down to Mirabella. She’s the only thing I can think about. She’s all that matters.

Three minutes and twenty seconds.

That’s how long I’ve been pacing in this sterile, cold waiting room. The fluorescent lights buzz above, casting harsh shadows on the white tiles beneath my restless feet. I can’t sit still. Every step I take is another echo of my heartbeat, and it feels like I’m suffocating in here.

The tension in the room is enough to choke on.

Isabella and Giulia have stopped crying, but their eyes are swollen, red. Nonna sits, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her gaze searing into me every time I pass by. Vittorio stands at the side, his jaw clenched, his body rigid. He hasn’t said a word to me—not even a small gesture of comfort. I know he’s angry, maybe even disgusted by me.

I should have listened to him. I should have talked to her, not thrown insults at her.

Please. Let her be okay. Just let her and the baby⁠—

My fists clench at the thought, and I force my eyes shut. I can’t think about that. I won’t. It doesn’t matter if the child is mine or not. It should matter, but right now, nothing does except Mirabella.

Then, I feel the soft scent of jasmine perfume behind me. I turn, and Zia Camilla is standing there, her expression tight, lips pressed into a firm line. She gives me that look, the one that only makes my rage boil hotter.

“Ettore,” she starts, her voice too soft, too calm. “You need to calm down. Mirabella will be fine. Your pacing around here isn’t helping anyone. You’ve done enough. Let the professionals take care of her.”

My hands curl into fists at my sides. Before I realize it, I’ve grabbed her arm, my grip hard and unrelenting. “You either go back home and the get fuck out my face or keep your fucking mouth shut,” I spit out, my voice low and dangerous.

Zia’s eyes widen slightly at my tone, but she doesn’t argue. She winces when I release her, running a hand through my hair in frustration.

“Mr. Greco?” A firm voice cuts through the tension.

My heart lurches in my chest. I turn to see a tall woman in teal scrubs, her stethoscope around her neck, her expression unreadable but kind.

“How is she?” I choke out, stepping toward her, my feet moving before my mind can catch up. “How is my Mirabella?”

The doctor’s professional gaze softens, just a fraction. “She’s stable. A slight concussion, but nothing life-threatening. She’ll need to rest and be monitored, but she’s going to be fine.”

Fine. The word barely registers. I stand there, frozen, as a wave of relief crashes over me, but it’s still not enough to ease the tight knot in my chest. Mirabella’s not out of the woods, not yet. But for the first time in hours, I can breathe again.

I try to steady myself, but the doctor adds more words that freeze me in place.

“And,” she says, glancing down at her clipboard, “we’ll also be keeping a close eye on her pregnancy.”

A soft gasp ripples through the room, and I turn, my eyes catching Mirabella’s family as their faces fall into stunned silence. They didn’t know.

“Mirabella is pregnant?” Isabella’s voice cracks, barely a whisper, but the weight of it lands hard in the room.

The doctor looks between us, gauging the atmosphere, and responds carefully, “Yes. She’s approximately eight weeks along. The baby appears healthy, though we’ll need to conduct further tests to confirm.”

I pause, the shock pulsing through me. I couldn’t have heard her correctly.

“I’m sorry, what did you just say?” I demand, struggling to keep my voice steady. “How far along is she?”

The doctor meets my gaze, calm and unflinching, as if she’s dealt with this reaction before. “I said she’s about eight weeks along. Despite her condition, she kept repeating the words ‘my baby,’ so we conducted a check. I’m pleased to tell you that no harm has come to the pregnancy. Once she’s stabilized, we’ll proceed with more tests to ensure everything is progressing well.”

Eight weeks. My mind spirals, calculating the timing. Eight weeks ago… That was before everything, before the pictures, before the lies, before the betrayals. It was a time when it was just us—she and I, tangled in a storm of rain and passion, no secrets, no doubts.

Before I took her virginity. Her innocence.

Before I fucked everything up.

The world tilts, and I stagger back, my legs suddenly weak. I grab the back of a chair, trying to steady myself, but everything feels like it’s slipping out of my control. The baby is mine. The thought hits me like a punch to the gut. I can’t—I can’t—believe it. Eight weeks, and there’s no way…

“Thank you, doctor,” I hear someone say—Vittorio, maybe Nonna—but their words fade into the background, a blur of sound.

As soon as the doctor leaves, Nonna is on me, her fury a blazing fire. She rushes toward me, her face twisted with disgust. “You devil,” she spits, her voice trembling with righteous anger. “You knew she was carrying your child, and yet you did this to her! You and your demonic family will pay for this!”

The room goes quiet, the weight of her words sinking into my skin. My aunts look pale, guilt written across their faces, and even Vittorio stands still, stunned. But none of it registers. Not the accusations, not the looks. My mind is consumed with one, overwhelming thought.

The baby is mine.

The realization hits me like a freight train, bringing with it a storm of emotions—relief, guilt, love, and a fear so raw it grips my heart. The anger I threw at her, the accusations I hurled without even listening—I did this. I refused to hear her, to trust her, and now…now the woman I love, the mother of my child, is in a hospital bed, fighting for her life because of me.

Shame and anger crash into me, suffocating, drowning me. How could I have let this happen?

I force myself to breathe, my fists clenched so tightly that my nails bite into my palms. The guilt and anger churn inside me, unbearable. But nothing is worse than the suffocating realization that I’ve lost control of everything.

“Once Mirabella is well, once she’s out of here, I will never let her anywhere near you or your family again,” Nonna spits, her words laced with venom.

Her words sting. But so do the accusing gazes of Isabella, Giulia, and Vittorio.

I don’t respond. I can’t. The weight of their fury, their disappointment—it’s too much to bear. Without a word, I turn on my heel and storm out of the waiting room. My chest is tight, my mind a storm of guilt, confusion, and raw anger. But as I walk, a dark, violent thought rises.

Milo.

This is his fault as well as mine.

It’s time to deliver punishment accordingly.

Minutes later, the chaos inside me settles into a sickening calm, the anger now cold, like a winter frost. My legs carry me through the halls, but I don’t even register where I’m going until I’m standing in front of his door.

I push it open slowly, the hinges creaking in the quiet of the night. The moonlight streams through his drawn blinds, casting long shadows across his sleeping form.

In my hand, I grip the gun, knuckles white. My finger hovers over the trigger.

Rage bubbles beneath the surface. Killing him would be so easy, so satisfying—every inch of me wants it. But…

It won’t bring Mirabella back to me. It won’t make her forgive me. It won’t change anything.

But it will ease the gnawing rage and guilt, even if it’s just for a moment. I press my finger to the trigger, the gunshot ringing out, the sound shattering the quiet like a crack in the world.