Dark Mafia Bride: Chapter 18

The chatter around the room slowly fades, replaced by the soft strains of classical music drifting through the speakers.

“We’ve heard whispers about your plan to expand the Greco Empire,” a voice cuts through the ambiance.

I take a slow sip from my whiskey glass, aware of the keen eyes on me. Somehow, between greeting guests, I’ve found myself knee-deep in a business conversation on my wedding day. Technically, this wedding is a strategic business move, designed to solidify alliances. I expected to connect with investors and associates today, but no man wants to debate business plans for hours on his wedding day, even if the said wedding is fake.

When I don’t reply right away, Stefano Sanchez, the man who asked the question, presses further. “You’ve been tight-lipped about your next move, Greco. Word on the street is you’re looking to expand your hotel business.”

I nod, maintaining a neutral expression. “Something like that.”

In my world, secrets rarely stay hidden for long. People become curious; they can’t help themselves. When they don’t get confirmation, they leap to conclusions, often missing the mark but sometimes getting uncomfortably close to the truth.

Bruno Ramirez, an oil tycoon I’m interested to bring on board, raises an eyebrow, intrigue flickering in his eyes. “That’s intriguing. Are you planning to acquire new hotels or invest in established ones? What’s your angle here?”

I take another sip of my drink, allowing the silence to linger a moment longer. “I’m looking at acquiring some existing properties—major chains, recognized names, expanding into new states. That’s the gist of my plan.”

“I know you, Ettore,” Bruno chuckles, leaning in. “You’re aiming to own them outright, correct?”

I smirk, shaking my head. “More like strategic partnerships that benefit everyone involved.”

They don’t need to know every detail. In business, the art of saying less is crucial. I don’t plan to partner with Stefano or Bruno on this project just yet, so the finer points remain under wraps. I want them to see me as a businessman making a power move in the hotel industry. What they don’t realize is that this isn’t just about acquiring properties. It’s a game many play, and longevity isn’t something everyone understands.

My expansion project aims to reshape the industry. I plan to buy out or invest in the best hotels nationwide, gaining control by holding the majority of stakes. The Greco Empire my father left behind won’t merely be a player in hospitality and investment—it will embody luxury, exclusivity, and power.

Bruno looks skeptical, his brow furrowing. “And you really think these hotel chains will sell? Some of them are decades old, deeply rooted.”

“They’ll sell,” I reply, my voice steady. “Everyone has a price.”

What they don’t know is that I’ve been laying the groundwork for this for years. My investments, my connections—have all been building toward this moment. Now, with the public image of a devoted family man, the kind of person investors trust, I’ve got the final piece in place. By the time they figure it out, I’ll be steering the largest hotel empire in the country.

Stefano chuckles, shaking his head with amusement. “Always dreaming big, aren’t you, Greco?”

I flash him a tight smile. “You know me.”

As the conversation drifts to topics like Bruno’s upcoming shipments from China and the deal Stefano wants to finalize with some Germans, my mind drifts elsewhere.

To her. My wife. Mirabella.

Just then, I spot Luca heading toward us from the crowd. From the look on his face, I can sense that something is wrong.

“I think you may want to see what’s going on inside, boss,” he whispers.

His words raise alarm bells in my mind, and I turn to glance at the towering building behind us.

“Sorry, gentlemen,” I say, clearing my throat. “Our conversation will have to end here. I appreciate you coming to my wedding, and I’ll catch up with you soon.”

We exchange quick parting words and firm handshakes before I slip through the garden and head toward the main house.

The warm air envelops me the moment I step through the large doors, a welcome contrast to the slight chill outside. I scan the empty lobby, searching for any signs of activity.

Luca didn’t need to elaborate. If he interrupted my conversation, it must be serious, and it likely concerns Mirabella.

“Where’s my wife?” I ask a maid passing by.

Her breath hitches as she looks up at me, wide-eyed.

“Sh-she’s upstairs, sir,” she replies in a timid voice.

I stride toward the staircase, taking them two at a time. As I near the next hallway, I hear it—the unmistakable bite of Zia Camila’s voice.

“You know, dear, in this family—I mean anywhere really, a wife usually sleeps with her husband.” Her words are laced with sarcasm and venom, and my hands clench into fists.

Zia Camila continues her tirade just as I reach the top of the stairs. From my vantage point, I see how they’ve cornered Mirabella, all three of my aunts looming over her.

I’d given them one instruction—just one—don’t disrespect my wife the moment she moves in here. But it seems my aunt is incapable of following orders.

“I don’t know the kind of family you came from, seeing as your father isn’t in the picture,” Zia Camilla continues, “but I’ll tell you how it’s done here…”

I’m about to charge in and issue a final warning when Mirabella speaks up.

“You won’t tell me how it’s done here.”

I freeze, and Zia Camila and the others exchange shocked looks.

“Excuse me?” Aunt Francesca is the one who speaks this time around.

Mirabella crosses her arms defiantly and tilts her head. “I wasn’t aware my sleeping arrangements with my husband required your approval.”

A flicker of surprise flashes across my aunt’s face, but she quickly recovers. “Forgive me for trying to confirm, dear,” she says, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “I just thought it was strange that a bride wouldn’t want to be by her husband’s side on her wedding night.”

Mirabella’s gaze sharpens, her voice unwavering. “You thought it was strange? Or have you just been searching for a reason to put me in my place?”

Zia Camila’s lips tighten into a thin smile, clearly unaccustomed to being challenged, especially by someone she considers beneath her.

“You’re quite bold, aren’t you? Perhaps you think that marrying into this family makes you a Greco,” Zia Camila snaps.

“Actually, I think it does,” Mirabella fires back. “I’m not sure where you’re from but when a lady marries a man, that usually means she gets his surname. I am a Greco. I am the wife of the man who runs this household. “

I stifle a chuckle as shocked gasps and murmurs ripple through the room. A surge of pride courses through me. I’d been worried about how she would handle my aunts, but I’d nearly forgotten the fierce spirit Mirabella possesses.

My fearless Kitten.

A voice suddenly cuts in—Aunt Marta, her tone dripping with disdain.

“We may not be able to change the fact that you’re married to our nephew, but the reality is that you are not fit to run this household. To even suggest otherwise is both disrespectful and insulting,”

“Why?” Mirabella shoots back, turning to face her with fire in her eyes. “Because I didn’t grow up with a silver spoon shoved up my ass?”

Shocked gasps ripple through the air again, and I struggle to suppress a laugh.

“I’m here because Ettore chose me,” Mirabella continues, her tone bold. “Just as I assume your husbands chose you. And while I won’t comment on the fact that you all should have your own families to run, it seems you’ve chosen to spend your time here trying to bully your nephew’s new wife,” she says, her smile sugary sweet. “I won’t delve into the reasons why I think the three of you are here instead of in your own husbands’ beds or homes. After all, as you kindly pointed out, I’m just a new member of the family, still learning the ropes.”

As I expect, Zia Camila takes a step closer to Mirabella, her face red with anger as it always is whenever someone mentions anything about her marriage.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, little girl. You wanted to use that against me, but you’ve lost. My husband is dead, and it was very insensitive of you to bring him up! How will your husband react when I tell him you insulted my late husband?”

Mirabella stands her ground. “The same way he’ll react when I tell him you brought up my absent father,” she retorts, her voice steady. “Also I think it’s really pathetic, trying to use your dead husband to score cheap points in an argument.”

I know it’s time to intervene when I see Zia Camila glaring at Mirabella, fists clenched at her sides.

“How dare you⁠—”

“What’s going on here?” My voice booms through the corridor, slicing through the tension like a knife.

Four heads whip around to face me, but my gaze zeroes in on one person—my wife, who is glaring daggers in my direction.

“Nothing, my dear nephew,” Zia Camila chirps, her tone overly bright. I shift my focus to her, narrowing my eyes. “We were just having a little welcome chat,” she adds, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Well, I think that’s enough chatting for tonight,” I say, striding over and wrapping my arm around Bella’s waist. I feel her stiffen for just a moment before she relaxes against me. “My wife needs to get some rest.”

Zia Camila’s eyes flash with frustration, but she knows better than to challenge me.

“Of course. We’ll leave you two alone.” She motions for the others, and I watch as they retreat to the other wing of the house, their whispers trailing behind them.

As soon as the last of them is gone, Bella pulls away from my grip, her expression fierce.

“You said I would have my own bedroom,” she snaps, shooting daggers at me with her eyes.

I take a step back, caught off guard by the heat in her gaze. “I meant it, Bella. But it’s complicated⁠—”

“Complicated?” She interrupts, her voice rising. “It’s not complicated. You promised, Ettore! I thought I’d have a place of my own in this house. Instead, I walked into a lion’s den!”

“I know. But my aunts can be overwhelming, and they won’t stop until they feel they’ve asserted their dominance. I had no idea they’d confront you like that,” I reply, trying to keep my tone calm.

“This isn’t what I signed up for,” Mirabella huffs, running a hand through her hair, frustration evident.

I stare at her face, flushed with anger, the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes heavily, and the way strands of her hair fall into her eyes before she tugs them back in frustration.

Fuck, I’m turned on.

Taking her hand, I pull her toward my bedroom. The last thing we need is to argue in the corridor on our wedding night where anyone could overhear us.

The moment we step inside, the air shifts. Every feeling I’ve been suppressing swells tenfold. We are alone, in my bedroom—my sanctuary—where no other woman has been, and suddenly all I want is to claim her.

“You handled that well by the way,” I say, dropping her hand before running my fingers through my hair in frustration.

She exhales sharply, and I can see the tension in her body.

“I’m used to bullies like them. It’s nothing new for me to defend myself against people who think the world revolves around them,” she spits, venom lacing her words. A pang of guilt hits me, but I quickly shove it down.

I shouldn’t let this woman make me feel even the slightest emotion toward her. That’s dangerous. She’s dangerous…

“Did you know your aunts were bullies?” she asks, then scoffs before I can respond. “Of course, you knew. You just didn’t care because this is a business arrangement, after all,” she mocks.

“They won’t bother you again,” I reply fiercely.

Her eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across her features.

“I can’t trust your words when you’ve already gone back on our agreement,” she accuses, softly this time.

“That,” I gesture toward the door. “What just happened a few minutes ago is why I changed the plans. There are nosy people around here, and the last thing we want is for anyone to suspect that this marriage is fake.”

She huffs, and I find myself being upset at the fact that she’s so insistent on not sharing a bedroom with me.

As she scans the room, I run my hands through my hair again. Her belongings are already moved in—clothes, personal items—everything arranged next to mine. It makes this whole situation feel real in a way it hadn’t before.

There’s a thick silence between us, and for a moment, neither of us knows what to say.

Finally, she clears her throat before turning to look at me. “I’m going to take a shower.”

I nod, watching as she gathers her things and slips into the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind her, and all I can think about now is the image of her naked body under the water.

A groan escapes my lips as I sit down on the edge of the bed, my mind racing with the possibilities. But I push those thoughts away, reminding myself that our marriage is strictly business, and nothing of that sort will ever happen between us again.

After what feels like an eternity, she emerges from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her chest, damp hair and skin flushed from the steam. I force myself to look away, keeping my eyes on the opposite wall as she moves around the room, pretending I’m not here, and for both our sakes, I do the same.

Eventually, I head to the bathroom myself. I need a cold shower—cold enough to wash away any lingering arousal. The steam from her shower still lingers in the air, and as I stand there in the fogged-up shower for a few minutes, just inhaling her scent, rich and intoxicating.

Realizing I’ve been standing here too long, I turn on the shower, cranking the temperature down to the coldest setting. The ice-cold water cascades down my back, and I scrub my body with a loofah, desperately trying to erase every trace of her touch and the thoughts swirling in my mind.

But even as I scrub, I know it won’t be that easy.

When I finally return to the room, I see Mirabella already tucked into bed, my covers pulled up to her chin. She’s turned away from my side of the bed, her body curled into itself as if trying to create as much distance as possible. The sight tugs at something in my chest.

I change into my pajamas and slip into bed beside her, careful to keep my distance. But the mere fact that she’s so close makes it impossible to relax. The tension between us is thick, heavy, like a weight pressing down on my chest. I can feel the heat radiating from her body and hear the sound of her heavy breathing.

“Pull yourself together,” I whisper to myself, fighting the urge to pull her against me.

Time stretches on—seconds feel like minutes, minutes drag into hours—as I lie there in the darkness. My mind spins, replaying the very things it’s not supposed to.

Finally, I begin to drift into sleep. Slowly. Torturously. It’s a bittersweet reality—the only woman I’ve ever desired lies so close to me, yet somehow, she feels a world away.