Page 59 of Dark Mafia Heir

This woman is not just beautiful. She’s...alive.

Every word she says, every gesture, fills the space around her like she’s somehow stolen all the light in the room and made it hers.

Many times during the conversation, I catch myself leaning forward, drawn in without knowing it. Her smile carries warmth, the kind that seeps into places I thought I’d closed offlong ago, and I realize I want to see more and more of her smiles than scowls.

Whatever’s going on inside me can’t just be attraction.

Lust is fleeting, simple.

But what I’m feeling now? It’s something heavier, something that settles in my chest and refuses to let go.

I shake the thought, but it clings stubbornly, and the realization hits me quietly, like something I don’t want to admit out loud.

It’s not just her beauty, though that’s undeniable.

It’s all of her.

“Thank you for this,” I say, breaking the quiet. “You didn’t have to, but I’m glad you did.”

Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away this time. “I’m glad I did, too.”

And as I take another bite, I realize it’s not just the food that’s warming me—it’s mygattina.

21

Vivienne

The ceiling above me blurs into shadowed shapes as I stare at it, and my voice grows louder in my head. Technically, it’s Ginny’s voice; and it’s the prophecy-thing that haunts me.

My eyes opening to see; understanding,seeing.

Could this be it?

It might as well have been because I can get a fucking wink of sleep after having dinner with Antonio. No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about him.

I toss and turn, tangling the sheets between my legs even more as sweet memories resurface. His voice lingers in my head, from when he’d boasted about his kitchen powers, and as much as he tried to hide it, it saw it—that vulnerability he masterfully keeps locked away.

His humanity. I felt it in the weight of his words during our last conversation.

I turn onto my side, clutching the pillow like it might somehow ground me. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes the ache inmy chest worse. Maybe this side of him had always been there , but I never wanted to see him as anything more than what I believed.

But now…

Now I’m not so sure.

The way he spoke, the way he looked at me, there was something raw, something real that chipped away at the walls I’d built.

I try to convince myself that I hate it. I hate how I’m starting to question everything I thought I knew about him. How I can’t shake the image of his eyes, dark but not cruel.

I close my eyes, willing the memories away, but they only grow stronger. Flashes of his voice and the beautiful curve of a smile on his lips, like it belonged there. The faintest trace of amusement when I surprised him with my special pasta.

I caused this turmoil in the first place, and now I have to suffer the consequences.

My heart twists.

This isn’t who I am.

Before Mancini, I was Cole. Somewhere, despite the nagging voices in my head saying otherwise, I still believe I am more Cole than Mancini.

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