Dark Mafia Bride: Chapter 39

A harsh light seeps through my eyelids, pulling me from the depths of unconsciousness.

My mind stirs, groggy, reluctant, as I hover between awareness and the lingering darkness. I want to groan, but the sound catches somewhere in my throat, refusing to rise.

I can’t move.

My mind is awake, foggy and blurred, yet my body feels pinned down—heavy, sore, and unresponsive.

Eventually, my eyes peel open, squinting against the glare from a harsh overhead bulb. The blinding brightness forces me to blink rapidly until the sterile white of a hospital room sharpens into focus.

The pungent scent of antiseptic and the soft, rhythmic hum of machines press in around me, and a dull throb pulses at the back of my skull.

I slowly turn my head, muscles stiff and resistant, until my gaze lands on a familiar figure slouched in the chair beside me. Ettore. Memories start filtering back in.

Dinner, the argument that came afterward, the door slamming behind me as I stormed out.

I was leaving him.

Determined.

And yet here I am, with the very man I’d been desperate to escape, hovering like a shadow.

I guess the universe was strongly against that because why am I here with said man whose presence makes my heart clench painfully with the cutting words he’d said earlier.

The man I love.

For a long, silent moment, I just watch him. He’s still wearing last night’s clothes—a T-shirt and sweatpants, wrinkled and clinging to his form. His hair, long and slightly wild, falls messily over his face, covering tired, hollowed eyes. He looks as if he hasn’t slept in days, his jaw shadowed with dark stubble that’s grown thick. There’s a weariness about him, a weight that makes his strong features look somehow…fragile. As if he’s aged overnight.

With effort, I shift, inching up in bed, and the subtle rustling is enough to rouse him. His eyes snap open, instantly locking onto mine. Relief floods his expression, as if the weight of the world has been lifted from him in that single, painful moment. He straightens quickly, jerking upright in the chair. His hands twitch, reaching for me, then faltering, dropping uselessly to his sides.

“Mirabella,” he whispers, his voice rough. “You’re awake.” His words crack around the edges, and the sound twists something deep in my chest.

He exhales sharply, and despite himself, reaches forward, his fingers brushing the edge of my cheek. “How are you feeling? Are you…in pain? The doctor said you have a concussion. Does your head hurt?”

I flinch, instinctively pulling away from his touch. His hand freezes, a flicker of hurt crossing his face, but he tries to hide it. “I’m fine,” I rasp, though we both know it’s far from true.

His gaze sweeps over me, lingering on my face as if he’s trying to memorize every detail, every line. “You scared me,” he murmurs, so softly it’s almost a confession. “You have no idea how frightened I was.”

His vulnerability pricks at my resolve, stirring something that wants to soften, but I shove the feeling down. His concern is touching, but it doesn’t erase what’s been said, what’s been broken between us. “You don’t have to be here,” I manage, forcing my voice to stay steady, even though my heart pounds erratically.

His face falls, the color draining as if I’ve slapped him. He looks shattered, his mouth opening and closing as he struggles to find words.

“Bella…I’m sorry,” he says, voice trembling. “I’m so sorry. I know I can’t take back what I said. I know I can’t fix everything with just words.” He swallows hard, the rawness of his regret bleeding into his tone. “But please, just tell me what I can do to make this right.”

I take a deep breath, swallowing down the ache in my chest. “Leave,” I say softly, the single syllable dragging out painfully.

He doesn’t flinch this time. He just stares at me, jaw tightening as though bracing for a storm. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, his voice firm, unwavering. “I’m going to fix this.”

I turn my head, refusing to let him see the cracks that are starting to show. “Fix this?” I repeat, disbelief lacing my words. “Do you even realize what your actions have cost us? What they’ve done to us?” My voice trembles with emotions I can’t quite contain. Fear, anger, uncertainty—everything floods over me again.

Ettore’s fists clench, his shoulders stiffening as he looks away. “I know I’ve hurt you,” he admits, his voice barely a whisper. “I made a terrible mistake. But I swear, I’ll make things right.”

I scoff, the bitterness in my words coming out sharper than I intend. “Make it right? You think your apologies can undo everything that’s happened? Can you just erase the things you said to me? Pretend none of it ever happened?”

I see the hurt flash in his eyes, but I can’t bring myself to care. Not now. Not after everything.

“You wouldn’t believe me when I tried to tell you the truth,” I continue, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “You accused me of cheating. You called me a gold-digging whore.” My chest tightens at the memory, and I clutch my hand over my heart, trying to soothe the pain inside me.

His face twists in pain, and I want to stop—want to reach out and tell him I don’t mean it, that the anger is just the aftermath of everything that’s broken between us. But I can’t. I can’t let him off the hook this time.

Ettore’s eyes follow my every movement, his gaze locked on me with an intensity that feels almost suffocating. With each subtle shift, I can feel the weight of his broken heart pressing down on me.

When his eyes snap back to mine, something shifts in his expression. There’s a flicker of something dark and desperate beneath the pain, and for a moment, I wonder if it’s regret or anger—or maybe both. “I know I can’t fix everything I’ve said and done,” he says, his voice low, the words slow and deliberate. “But I’ll do whatever it takes.” His sincerity is so raw, it almost terrifies me.

I can hear the desperation in his voice, as if he’s teetering on the edge of something real, and it’s almost enough to pull me in. Almost.

But a part of me—maybe the part that’s been hurt too many times—won’t let me believe him. It won’t let me trust that things could be different. I can’t be the kind of woman who keeps accepting this, who keeps allowing a man to hurt her only to promise change when it’s already too late.

The silence between us stretches out, until the door creaks open, breaking the tension. The doctor steps in, her face a mask of calm professionalism, clipboard in hand. She’s wearing light blue scrubs, and she gives me a polite, practiced smile.

“Good morning, Mrs. Greco. I see you’re awake now. How are you feeling?” Her voice is calm, almost soothing, but I can’t focus on anything but the tightness in my chest.

I sit up a little straighter, suddenly aware of the exhaustion in my limbs, and the sharp ache that still lingers in my head.

“How is my baby?” I blurt, unable to stop myself. The words spill out before I even process them, and I can feel Ettore’s eyes boring into me as if he’s hanging on every syllable.

The doctor’s smile widens, and for a moment, I think I can finally breathe. “Your baby is okay, Mrs. Greco. We still need to perform another checkup before you’re discharged, but everything looks good for now.”

From Ettore’s expression, I know he’s already been told the details of my condition. I don’t know how to feel about that, and honestly, part of me doesn’t want to know. If he thinks I cheated on him, then…no.

Don’t think about it.

The doctor moves through her questions with a brisk efficiency. I answer her, but my mind keeps drifting back to Ettore—the man sitting so close yet feeling like a lifetime away. He asks about how long I’ll need to stay in the hospital, what I’ll need for a speedy recovery, and when I’ll need to come in for checkups because of the baby. The questions are well-meaning, but they make my skin crawl.

I stop myself from scoffing when he asks about the frequency of checkups. The last thing I want is for him to be involved in any of it.

When the doctor finishes, she gives me a quick nod, her expression satisfied. “Everything looks good for now,” she says. “I’ll check back in later.” With that, she steps out, leaving the two of us alone again.

The silence returns, I can feel Ettore’s gaze on me, and it burns. My hands clench around the thin hospital blanket, my chest tight, but I force myself to speak. “I’m not going back to your house,” I say quietly. “When my family comes, I’m leaving with them.”

Ettore’s jaw clenches, his eyes darkening. “You’re not leaving me,” he says, his voice dangerously low. “Especially not now. You’re carrying my child.”

His words freeze me in place, my breath catching. “How did you know?”

“The doctor told me how far along you are. It wasn’t hard to figure out,” he replies, his gaze unwavering.

“I see.”

He leans forward, frustration flashing across his face. “Why didn’t you tell me? It’s my baby too, Bella. I had a right to know.”

“Like you would have listened?” I say bitterly.

“Of course, I would have,” he argues, but I can’t help but scoff.

“Oh, like you did the last time?”

“Bella—”

“My name is Mirabella,” I snap. “And I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It doesn’t change anything. You didn’t listen to me before, so don’t pretend to now.”

His shoulders sag slightly, and he rubs a hand over his face, as though he’s trying to steady himself. “I didn’t mean for things to get so out of control. I overreacted—I know that. But you can’t shut me out now. I would have kept you safe…”

But he doesn’t see it. The possessiveness in his tone, the way he’s already claiming this pregnancy as if it validates every hurtful word, every dismissal. I ignore the way my heart stutters, my pulse quickening against my will. He’s drawing a line, laying claim, as if it justifies everything.

“Safe?” I laugh bitterly, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “I was supposed to be safe with you, Ettore. You promised me safety but look where that got me.” My throat tightens, and I fight back the tears threatening to spill. “Just another thing you’ve failed at. I can’t…I can’t do this anymore.”

The guilt in his eyes is unbearable, and for a fleeting moment, I almost feel sorry for him. I can see how deeply it’s eating at him. But those feelings get swallowed by the weight of what he’s done. His pain doesn’t erase mine.

“Please,” he says, the word strangled in his throat, raw with desperation. “Don’t push me away. We can work through this.”

Before I can answer, the door bursts open, and my family floods in, their presence a wave of warmth and relief. I exhale, feeling the tightness in my chest loosen just a little when I see Nonna, Mamma, and Giulia rushing toward me.

I exhale deeply, the tightness in my chest loosening just a little as they surround me, their hands gently touching my shoulders, my arms, grounding me. For the first time since waking, I feel a sliver of relief, a sense of belonging that Ettore’s presence can’t provide.

“You’re okay.” Mamma sniffles, tears already in her eyes. “You’re alive.”

I hate seeing her like this—hating that I’ve put her through this, that she’s had to worry like this. Nonna’s eyes are red-rimmed, filled with concern as she takes both of my hands in hers, her grip tight, trembling.

“Thank God you’re okay, Mia Piccola!” she breathes. The relief in her voice is enough to make me feel grounded for a second. But then, her gaze shifts to Ettore, and that relief turns to something much darker.

“This is all your fault,” she spits, her voice shaking with fury. “And I swear to God, once we leave here, you’ll never see her again.” Her words hang in the air, heavy with threat, as if she could crush him with them. And maybe, just maybe, she could.

“You won’t take her from me,” Ettore says, his voice eerily calm but taut with an edge of something I can’t quite place.

“I told you I’ll be going back to my family.” I cut him off, my words firm. “That’s not up for negotiation.”

He holds my gaze for a long beat, eyes dark and unreadable, but I don’t flinch. I won’t. I stare right back, daring him to challenge me, to say anything that might make me second-guess myself.

I wish things were different. I wish we could have the kind of love I’ve always dreamed of. But we’re too broken. We come from different worlds.

Ettore doesn’t argue, though. He simply stands, takes one last look at me and walks out. The door clicks softly behind him, and I let out a long, shaky breath.

I spend the next few minutes in silence with my family. Their presence is a soothing balm through everything. Mamma is quieter now, her eyes red from crying, but her fingers never leave mine. Nonna sits by my side, as though guarding me, and Giulia hovers at the edge of the bed, her gaze flicking nervously from me to the door.

When I feel exhaustion creeping back in, my family insists I rest. I let them go, sinking back into the bed, my body too tired to protest, too worn to fight.

The next morning, I open my eyes to find Ettore entering my room. It feels oddly like yesterday, only this time, his gaze is unwavering, full of an intensity that pins me in place as he sits by my bedside.

He tells me he’s here to go over the results with the doctor, and despite my immediate resistance, he stands his ground, challenging me with a fierceness I haven’t seen in a long time. After a short, quiet debate, I reluctantly let him stay. Silence settles between us as we wait, both bracing for what’s to come.

Minutes later, the doctor walks in, her expression noticeably more serious. My pulse quickens, a cold knot of dread forming in my stomach.

“Mrs. Greco,” she begins, “How are you feeling today?”

“Much better, doctor,” I reply, barely keeping my voice steady. “What did the results say?”

She glances at Ettore, then back at me, her tone gentle yet firm. “I have some news. We did another ultrasound…and we found two heartbeats. It appears you’re expecting twins.”

The air leaves my lungs. I’m frozen, struggling to process what she just said. Ettore’s hand closes over mine, and for once, I don’t pull away. His grip tightens, grounding me as I try to comprehend the reality of twins—two heartbeats.

The word echoes in my mind, reshaping everything in a single, overwhelming moment.

I glance over at Ettore. His face has gone pale, his eyes wide with shock, but there’s something else there too—a flicker of awe, of quiet, unguarded hope. For a brief moment, I want to soak it in, to let myself feel that fragile, tentative joy alongside him.

But deep down, I know the truth hasn’t changed. I’m leaving him.

This miracle doesn’t erase the pain, the history, or the broken pieces of us. So I hold his hand a moment longer, then gently let go, feeling the weight of the decision I’ve already made settle even deeper.