Dark Mafia Bride: An Arranged Marriage, Secret Baby Romance (Mafia Vows)
Dark Mafia Bride: Chapter 22

My feet crunch against the gravel as I step out of my car onto a quiet street in the Lower East Side. A light drizzle falls from the sky, making the ground damp and creating a fog that hangs over the air. Across the road, a dim neon sign blinks red from an alleyway, flickering weakly in the darkness.

I cross the empty street, head down as I move toward the alley. When I reach the door, I pull it open and slip inside, replaceing myself in what looks like an old vinyl store. Without stopping, I make my way toward the back, where another door waits. I push it open and enter a narrow, dimly lit corridor that reeks of damp stone and stale smoke.

I walk down the corridor, each step echoing softly until I reach the door at the end. Swiping my card, I hear the click of the lock, and the door slides open.

Inside, the air is thick and heavy. Jazz hums low in the background, a lazy tune that winds through the haze of cigar smoke, settling into the dark wood and plush velvet sofas scattered around the room. My eyes sweep over the familiar faces, men draped in shadows, some lounging in armchairs, others perched on leather stools. Their expressions are hard. Focused.

These aren’t ordinary men. They’re dangerous, each one a silent enforcer in the criminal underworld, men who erase problems not with signatures but with silence—and sometimes blood. These are men like me, gathered here today for a reason none of us can ignore.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t show,” sneers Riccardo De Santis, his sharp gaze cutting through the smoke. Riccardo, the man who owns half the drug factories on this side of the country, knows just how to throw a jab.

I ignore him, turning instead to Dante Russo, the head of Manhattan’s largest drug cartel. He speaks first, his voice gravelly and tense. “You’ve all heard the news.”

We lost the customs director this morning. Not lost as in dead, but worse—arrested. For men like us, that’s a far bigger problem.

Abruzzi isn’t here yet, but he’s expected. Abruzzi, with his smug grin and his tendency to show up exactly where I don’t want him to be.

“The authorities put out a public statement. They’re launching a full-blown investigation.” Dante’s voice is low, but it cuts through the murmurs that ripple around the room.

Our man in customs, the one we placed there, has been compromised. He made things easy for us, greasing the wheels of our operations. Now he’s in their custody, and it’s only a matter of time before they start digging. To put it plainly, we’re fucked.

Ricardo leans forward, his face shadowed. “Days. That’s all we’ve got before they start tracing every shipment, every payout. They’ve frozen his accounts already. It won’t be long before they track down the rest of us.”

From across the table, Bruno Sanchez curses under his breath. “I’ve got a contact at Interpol. It’s not just the Feds,” he mutters, scowling. Bruno’s been in the game since the early ‘90s, and he doesn’t look like he’s stopping anytime soon.

I glance around. Six of us should be here, but we’re two short.

Abruzzi and Martelli.

I can’t stand Abruzzi, but the reality is that our circles overlap, and we’re in this mess together. He’s not one to miss a meeting like this, though, and a bad feeling gnaws at me. Either Abruzzi’s caught up in something that could drag us all down, or he’s behind this trouble.

Dante’s voice breaks through the haze, rougher this time. “It’s worse than we thought. Someone’s leaking intel. They know about our routes, our fronts—even our offshore accounts. This is going to blow up fast. They’re hitting us from the bottom up, picking off our bodyguards, our men. They’re squeezing them for names and leads.”

The room goes quiet. No one says it out loud, but I can see it in their eyes—if we don’t get ahead of this, we’ll be next.

“That’s not the main problem,” I finally say. “We’re all circling the obvious here. We have a wildfire at our doorstep.” The room quiets, eyes turning to me as I let the words hang heavy. “They pulled Martelli this afternoon. In his villa in Barcelona.”

I pause, watching the alarm ripple through the faces around me. “And he’s talking.”

“Martelli’s a fucking coward,” Bruno spits, anger gleaming in his eyes. We’ve all heard brave stories of the man. He’s been arrested a couple of times, and each time he’s asked to snitch, he asks them to kill him instead.

“He knows too much,” Bruno continued, “and if they’ve really got him, they’re closer to us than I’d thought. It’s only a matter of time before they pick someone else, too.”

“Then what do you suggest we do, Ettore?” Ricardo asks in a biting tone. “Since you know everything, and we’ve all been stating the obvious.”

I glance at him, keeping my expression blank. Ricardo’s had it out for me ever since I had a short, ill-fated fling with his sister. A couple of fucks some nights together, and she was talking about moving into the Greco estate, making plans for children. I told her straight—in more cruel words, I’ll admit—I wasn’t interested in marriage, family, any of it. The next day, Ricardo stormed into my office, hurling curses and fists. He’s never forgiven me, and he’s not about to start now.

I lean back, letting the silence build before I speak. “We all know what has to be done.”

We have to kill Martelli.

No one objects. They know I’m right.

I lean forward, my voice low. “They’re going after every network, every front we’ve built. They’re going to rip through us piece by piece if we don’t end this leak and shut down this investigation for good. And we need to do it fast.”

Nods of agreement ripple through the room. Dante opens his mouth to say something, but just as he does, the door slides open, and I glance up—only to see Mirabella charging in, fury blazing in her eyes.

“What the⁠—”

“You tried to have me killed,” she shouts, her voice raw with anger. She’s shaking, her face taut with rage. She doesn’t care about the dozen pairs of eyes turning her way, doesn’t hesitate in the presence of men who’d slit her throat without a second thought.

I stand, my tone low and deadly. “What are you doing here? How the hell did you get here?”

“Why didn’t you answer your phone when I called?” Her voice slices through the room, sharp and loaded with anger. “You never, ever miss your calls, Ettore, so why now?”

“Is that what this is all about?” Ricardo’s mocking voice floats from somewhere behind me. I catch a few amused glances exchanged by some men, while others just look fed up with the drama. But their expressions barely register as Abruzzi walks in, and suddenly, everything clicks.

Without a second thought, I cross the room in two strides, grab him by the collar, and shove him hard against the wall.

“What the fuck did you do?” I snarl, tightening my grip. “I told you to stay away from my wife. Why is she here? Why did you bring her here?”

He only smirks, his face an irritating picture of calm. If anything, his grin grows wider.

“Easy there, Ettore.” He chuckles, clearly amused. “Your wife came to me asking for help. And what kind of man would I be to turn down an offer like that⁠—”

Before he can finish, I drive my fist into his face. The satisfying crack of bone rings out, but it’s not enough. I hit him again, and then again, each blow doing little to quench the fury boiling inside me.

“Ettore, stop!” Mirabella’s panicked voice cuts through my rage, her soft hands gripping my arm, trying to pull me back.

I step away from Abruzzi, watching as blood pours from his nose. He coughs and spits, staining the floor with blood. Mirabella rushes toward him, but before she gets too close, I grab her arm and pull her back to me.

“Why the fuck are you defending him? And why were you with him in the first place?” My voice is loud, almost a shout, and I can’t bring myself to care.

Her eyes spark with anger, matching my own. “My house burned down today, Ettore! Did you know that?” She yells, wrenching her arm free. “My Nonna, my sister, my Mamma…” She chokes, her voice breaking, and I see the tears welling in her eyes.

“Mirabella…” I reach for her again, my tone softer, but she steps back.

“I called you. My grandmother called you, but you didn’t answer. You promised to protect us, but when my mother was trapped in that burning house, Abruzzi was the one who went in and saved her,” she screams, her words tearing into me.

Behind her, Abruzzi wipes the blood from his lip, a smug, blood-streaked grin spreading across his face.

“I saved your wife and her family, and this is the thanks I get?” he sneers, his voice dripping with bitterness. “Even for you, that’s low.”

“I told you to stay away from her,” I growl, but the anger only fuels the shame, the regret, the disgust I feel for myself.

Abruzzi doesn’t flinch. “If I hadn’t stepped in and brought Mirabella and her family to safety, you’d be waking up to breaking news by morning. Billionaire Ettore Greco loses his wife and her family in a tragic fire…” His voice is smug, every word twisting the knife deeper.

Mirabella swipes at a tear on her cheek, and my chest tightens with anger—at her, at Abruzzi, but mostly at myself.

I swore to protect her. I swore to keep her safe. Yet tonight, I’d failed her, and the bitter irony that he—the man I warned her to stay away from—was the one who saved her digs deep, wounding my pride.

So instead of letting the jealousy, the frustration, and the self-loathing consume me, I let a bitter smile twist onto my face.

“Thanks for playing hero, Abruzzi,” I sneer. “But don’t get too comfortable. I’ll be picking up my in-laws soon.”

A few snickers break the tense silence in the room, and that’s when I remember we have an audience. Clearly, they’ve been enjoying the drama we just performed for them.

I meet Riccardo’s gaze, and something flashes in his green eyes before he takes a step forward.

“Isabella…it’s Isabella, isn’t it?”

“Don’t speak to my wife,” I snarl, just as Mirabella snaps back.

“I’m sure you’re aware of my name.” Her words spark a few chuckles around the room, and I can see she’s too furious to appreciate me stepping in.

Riccardo’s eyes narrow at her retort.

“Quite the entrance,” he sneers, voice oozing with disdain. “You think you can barge in here and interrupt a meeting because—what? Your husband didn’t answer your call? Oh, poor Isabella,” he taunts mockingly.

“Funny,” Mirabella fires back, her tone sharp. “I don’t remember needing your permission to walk in. Only my husband can speak to me on such matter. So what are you going to do about it? Punish me for disturbing your oh-so-important meeting?”

His expression twists with contempt. “You’re insolent and disrespectful, and I bet you’ve been enjoying watching these two men fight over you as if you’re worth something.” He glances at me with a sneer. “Tell me, Ettore—why did you marry a woman like this? Is it just the sex? Because she looks like a cheap slut. She⁠—”

A deafening bang echoes through the room before he can finish. Another shot follows almost immediately, but it’s not from my gun.

Riccardo’s body collapses to the ground, a clean hole in his forehead and another in his chest. Slowly, I turn and see the faint smoke curling from Abruzzi’s gun. His dark eyes bore into mine, filled with something unfathomable, something dangerous and unreadable.

My pulse pounds as I take in the sight—the man, my rival, who just killed another man…over my wife.