Dark Mafia Bride: An Arranged Marriage, Secret Baby Romance (Mafia Vows)
Dark Mafia Bride: Chapter 45

The first chill of November nips at my skin as I sit on the front porch of our new house. It’s a small place, but compared to where we used to live, it feels like a haven. That thought should be enough to comfort me.

After everything we’ve endured—the fire, moving into the Greco estate, moving out again, and finally landing a stable internship—I’m grateful to afford a place of our own.

The neighborhood is a clear improvement—quieter, safer, with tidy, modest homes lining well-kept streets instead of cracked roads and peeling paint. Our new house even has a little fenced-in yard, and although the wooden swing beneath me creaks with each gentle sway, it feels like a treasure.

I pull my oversized sweater tighter against the cold, my hands instinctively cradling my belly beneath the thick wool. I’m showing much more now, my belly is rounder, firmer, and I’ve become obsessed with caressing its gentle curve.

The fact that I’m pregnant— carrying not one, but two lives within me—still fills me with a mix of disbelief and quiet joy. In just a few months, I’ll be a mother. Giulia will be an aunt, Mamma a grandmother, and Nonna a great-grandmother. Nonna, in particular, I think, is the most excited about my pregnancy.

It’s funny, really, considering how indifferent she was toward Ettore in the beginning. Actually, indifferent might be too generous—downright hostile feels more accurate.

After I was discharged from the hospital, Nonna declared our home a No Ettore Zone. She wouldn’t let anyone so much as mention his name. When he came to visit, she wouldn’t let him past the front door. The one time she did, she made him stand there like a deliveryman holding the flowers he’d brought me as she stared him down as if she was deciding whether to waterboard him with holy water.

But over time, I’ve watched their dynamic shift. His persistence—and maybe a touch of his tragic “kicked puppy” vibe—seems to have chipped away at her resolve. Her countless sharp jabs and snide comments never fazed him, and somewhere along the line, their verbal sparring turned into a strange, almost endearing routine. The insults softened, the eye rolls became less frequent, and now they actually look forward to outwitting each other.

Imagine my shock when Nonna—Nonna!—became his loudest advocate. She calls him constantly now, pestering him to bring over anything and everything she thinks I might need.

One time, it was pickled artichokes “to prevent cravings.” Another time, an industrial fan “to keep her precious bis-nipoti from getting too warm in my belly.”

When I finally confronted her about it, she crossed herself dramatically and went full-on spiritual deflection mode.

“Mia cara,” she said with an exaggerated sigh, “children are a gift from God. Even if their father is a control-obsessed fool with a face like a sad mouse, who am I to judge? I wouldn’t be a good Christian if I didn’t accept him—especially since he practically lives here now, coming over here every day like some dejected stray cat.”

Her logic was, as always, bulletproof. And now, Ettore is practically part of the family, whether she’ll admit it or not.

The rest of my family has adjusted to him, too. As so have we to his.

Vittorio has made himself the self-appointed curator of our movie nights, dropping by with carefully selected films and snack suggestions. Francesca and Leonardo, meanwhile, have taken Giulia under their wing, helping her settle into her new school since the move. They’ve somehow turned into the older siblings I didn’t realize she needed.

And me? I’m still trying to figure out how to fit into this new life. Alessia and Giovanni stop by occasionally, and their visits are a comfort, but they don’t fully fill the ache I feel for what’s been lost.

I sigh as I watch the neighborhood kids racing their bikes up and down the street. The crisp air carries the scent of freshly cut grass and the faint aroma of whatever masterpiece Nonna is cooking in the kitchen—something involving enough garlic to ward off a small vampire coven. Everything should feel perfect.

And, in many ways, it does.

My family is safe and healthy. The bills are paid. Mamma is recovering better than I’d ever hoped—her medications and treatments are finally within reach, and she’s regaining a vitality I haven’t seen in years. For the first time, we’re experiencing a stability that feels almost miraculous. We’re not rich, but we don’t need to be. Life is finally steady.

And yet, there’s a gnawing emptiness that refuses to go away.

Because he’s not here.

The man I am madly, recklessly in love with.

The man I am still married to.

I miss him. I miss the way his presence fills a room—intense and commanding yet comforting in a way I never thought I’d crave. I miss the way his hands—rough and calloused from years of being so hardened—soften when they touch me, as if I’m the only delicate thing in his entire world.

I miss the way his voice wraps around my name, making it sound like something sacred.

I miss the way he looks at me as though I’m his light in the darkness, even when he’s too proud or too stubborn to say it.

It’s been over two months since everything happened.

Since I left the Greco estate—since I left Ettore. But even in his absence, his presence looms over my life. I see it in the brand-new water heater that mysteriously appeared when we moved in, the weekly deliveries of fresh produce, and how he never misses a doctor’s appointment. Even in his unexpected visits, just to check in, remind me he’s still here in ways I can’t escape.

Ettore’s attentiveness makes it even harder to emotionally stay away. I try to picture a future without him—my children growing up in a loving home, surrounded by care and security, in a neighborhood where everyone cares about the person next door. It’s an idyllic vision, one I desperately want to hold onto.

But every time I imagine that perfect life, he slips into the picture unbidden. Every fucking time, to the point where it’s become frustrating. And when he’s not there, the future feels hollow, incomplete.

“Mirabella, Cara, come inside before you catch a cold,” Nonna calls from the kitchen. Through the window, I see her stirring a pot of tomato soup. The rich, savory aroma wafts out into the crisp evening air, making my stomach growl.

I rise from the swing, wrapping my arms around myself for warmth as I step inside. The small living room is cozy; Giulia is sprawled on the couch, completely engrossed in the latest Marvel movie. The kitchen is bathed in a soft yellow glow across the linoleum floor, its warmth wrapping around me like a blanket.

Nonna gestures toward the table where a steaming bowl of soup waits. “Sit. Eat,” she orders in her no-nonsense tone. Since I became pregnant, she’s made it her personal mission to keep me well fed, preparing three meals a day without fail and even packing lunch for me on workdays.

“Grazie, Nonna,” I say with a smile as I sink into the chair, letting the warmth of the soup chase away the chill.

“You’re always out on that damned swing,” she grumbles. “It’s fall now—the evenings are cold.”

“I was wearing a sweater, Nonna,” I reply, rolling my eyes.

Mamma shuffles into the room, draped in a shawl she recently knitted herself. She’s taken up knitting as a hobby, which explains why everyone in the house now owns at least one fall-themed sweater.

She takes the seat across from me, and I can’t help but smile. It still feels like a small miracle to see her upright and vibrant again.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” I tease as Nonna places a bowl of soup in front of her. “Does it have anything to do with your physical therapy class?”

Mamma’s cheeks flush a faint pink, confirming my suspicion. She’s met someone—Cade, a widower with three grown children. She insists it’s nothing serious, but her blush tells another story.

She smirks, her tone playful. “And someone’s in a bad mood. Does it have anything to do with your husband?”

Her words make me pause, the warmth of the soup suddenly unable to reach the cold ache inside me.

Nonna’s laughter rings through the kitchen, light and mischievous, as I release an exasperated sigh. “Why do you always get so defensive when I bring him up?” I ask, rolling my eyes.

“Because there’s nothing going on between us,” Mamma retorts, her voice a little flustered.

“Oh, admit it, Isi,” Nonna says, her grin widening as she settles beside Mamma, clearly enjoying herself. “You are crushing that man.”

“Oh my God, Nonna. It’s, ‘You have a crush on that man,’ not whatever you just said,” Giulia pipes up from the living room, her voice dripping with teenage sass.

“Óh, stai zitta! What do you know about anything?” Nonna shoots back, a playful spark in her eyes.

“A crush?” My mother asks incredulously. “I’m too old for that, Mamma!”

Nonna smirks, clearly unfazed. “Too old? Nonsense! You’re never too old for a little romance. Look at me—I’m ancient, and I still know how to appreciate a good looking man! And no, Ettore does not qualify.”

I can’t help but laugh, but I’m also secretly relieved to see Mamma’s usual stoic exterior cracking just a little.

“No one is too old for crushes,” I chime in with a sly smile. “You like him. And from everything we’ve gathered, he likes you, too. So why are you pushing him away?”

She scoffs, waving me off. “You’re one to talk.”

My smile falters. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mamma’s eyes soften as they settle on me. “You’ve been pushing Ettore away for weeks now…”

“Our situations are completely different,” I counter, my voice sharper than I intended.

Nonna leans forward. “Give the man a chance, Cara. He’s proven himself. I almost feel bad for him now.”

I gape at her in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’re both ganging up on me right now. I thought you hated him.”

Nonna shrugs, unapologetic. “Like I said, he’s proven himself. I think he really loves you, Mira. Just like I know you love him, too.”

Her words strike a nerve, and I look down, tracing aimless patterns in my soup with the spoon. “It’s complicated,” I murmur. “Yes, Ettore has changed, but I don’t know if I can trust it. Or if I can trust myself around him.”

Mamma reaches across the table, her hand warm and steady as it rests over mine. “You’re scared, and that’s understandable,” she says softly. “But love isn’t always supposed to be simple. Sometimes, it’s about taking risks, even when it’s terrifying.”

Her words hang heavy in the air, their weight pressing on my chest. Ettore is a risk—one I’m not sure I have the courage to take again no matter how much every part of me still aches for him.

Long after dinner, Mamma’s words linger in my mind as I rock gently back and forth on the porch swing. The sky is a canvas of deep blues, sprinkled with stars that shimmer like tiny diamonds. The cold air bites at my cheeks, my breath forming soft white clouds in the stillness.

The quiet is broken by the low hum of an approaching car. My heart leaps when I recognize the sleek black vehicle pulling up in front of the white picket fence. Ettore steps out, his tall frame silhouetted against the headlights. He visits regularly, but it doesn’t matter—his presence still always sets my heart racing.

His dark coat flows behind him as he strides into the yard, his black boots crunching softly on the stones and grass.

“Hey,” I greet him softly when he gets to me.

“Hey,” he replies, his voice low and warm. He leans down to press a kiss to my forehead, and his hand instinctively moves to rest on my belly. The simple gesture makes my breath hitch. His hand lingers for a moment, protective and reverent, before he pulls away and sits on the wooden porch beside me.

We’ve been doing this dance for weeks now, but still, I never get used to it.

“How are you? How’s the morning sickness?” he asks, his gaze intense, scanning me as though looking for any signs of distress.

“It’s better now,” I reassure him, giving him a small smile. “I don’t get it as badly as I did during the first trimester. Though, last week was rough. I think I ate something that didn’t quite agree with me. But I’m okay now.”

His jaw tightens slightly, the flicker of concern not escaping my notice. Last week, when he found out how sick I’d been, he’d been furious with me for not telling him sooner—even though the symptoms had only started the day before. He’d rushed me to the doctor without a second thought, his concern evident in every action.

“How was work?” I ask, shifting the focus.

“The usual,” he replies. “I was driving by and thought I’d check in on you.”

I raise an eyebrow, skepticism creeping into my voice. “It’s Sunday and your office isn’t anywhere near my neighborhood, Ettore.”

“Oh really?” He grins, feigning confusion. “Swear I thought I opened a new branch just down the street.”

I stare at him, the playful gleam in his eyes making my heart race. “Ettore…” I warn him, not because I think he’s messing with me, but because I know him too well. He could actually do that—buy an entire freaking building and make it a subsidiary of his company, all just to be closer to me.

The thought makes my stomach flutter, but I keep my voice steady, eyeing him suspiciously. “You’d actually do that, wouldn’t you?”

His smile widens, that trademark glint in his eye. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

I roll my eyes, though I can’t help but laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” he replies, leaning closer. “But I’m your impossible.”

His smirk widens, but then he shifts, his voice dropping into something more sincere. “Well, you’re right,” he says, a small, teasing smile playing on his lips. “I just wanted to see you. Had a shitty day and figured I should be around what makes me happy.”

The glint in his eyes sends a shiver down my spine, and for a brief moment, I forget everything else, my breath catching in my chest.

He’s always had that effect on me. The way he looks at me—as if I’m the only thing in the world that matters.

I don’t say anything after that, because, well, I don’t have anything to say.

His honesty—and the way his eyes glint with something gives me butterflies—leaves me momentarily breathless. We’ve already had the conversation about boundaries. I told him to stop confessing his feelings or asking me to come back. If I were to return, it will be on my terms, not because I feel pressured.

It will be at the right time.

An uncomfortable silence stretches between us, thick with everything we’re not saying. It’s one of those things I still haven’t gotten used to—the awkwardness, the tension, the discomfort. But most of all, it’s the undeniable clarity that we still want each other, even after everything.

I catch myself wanting to say something, anything, to fill the space between us. But the words get stuck, tangled up with all the jumbled thoughts swirling in my mind. His gaze lingers on me, and for a moment, it feels like we’re on the edge of something.

Neither of us moves, but the air feels charged. There’s a pull, a magnetic force we can’t ignore, even if we tried. But how do we bridge the gap between us? How do we move past the mess we’ve made of things?

The thickness in the air crackles, feeling like an invisible thread pulling us together even as we try to resist it. Our eyes lock and I see the vulnerability he’s trying to hide—the longing, the desire, the love.

Something inside me shifts in that moment, and suddenly “the right time” I’d been waiting for feels like now.

I struggle to steady my breathing as I finally replace my voice. “Take me home.”

Ettore freezes, the words hanging between us like a delicate thread. Then his eyes light up with understanding, followed by relief, joy, and something darker—something that sends a chill down my spine and sets a fire in my heart.

He stands up slowly and reaches out his hand towards me with a deliberate, almost reverent gesture. My throat tightens as I reach back towards him, feeling the anticipation coursing through my body like electricity.

This is it—the moment I have both dreaded and longed for.

The moment I tell this frustratingly unpredictable man that I love him.