Page 65 of Dark Mafia Heir

I unlock the door. Pushing it open, I step inside. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, her arms wrapped around her knees. Red hair falls forward, framing her face, but her head snaps up when she sees me.

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

My conversation with Dario plays like a broken record in my mind:Maybe it's time to let someone in, and I hold up my gifts like sacrifices that can fix everything.

“I brought these.”

A softness fleets through her gaze as they land on them, but she doesn’t reach for them right away.

I set them on the nightstand and stand there, awkward, feeling out of place in my own space.

“I was wrong.” I slide my hands into my pockets to stop them from fidgeting. “About how I handled it.”

She doesn’t respond, just watches me with those eyes of hers.

“I’m sorry.”

Vivienne’s lips press together, and for a second, I think she’s going to turn me away. But then she nods, slow, almost hesitant, and something in my chest loosens.

“I don’t blame you. I just wish you’d heard me out first.”

“You wanted me to apologize before you were going to say anything, weren’t you?”

That familiar mischievous twinkle appears in her eyes for a brief second, before it fades off.

Cautiously, I take a step closer. “We’re okay?”

Slowly, she nods. “I called my sister.”

I sit on the edge of the bed, close enough to feel her warmth but not close enough to touch.

I want to trust her.

God, I want to believe every word that comes out of her mouth, but my world doesn’t work that way.

Still, as I look at her now, I feel an ache I can’t ignore, and I know that it's not just guilt or the need to make things right.

It's her.

I’m falling for her, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing.

If it isn’t, then she will definitely be the beginning of my undoing.

23

Vivienne

Athrong of people, specifically the male folk, gyrate on the floor, spreading green mint bills on the pole dancers. The music is loud, throbbing hard enough to pound on the walls of my chest, and the moving stage lights are brighter and almost more blinding than usual.

Someone shouts, more like cheers loudly, and there are concurring whoops and shrieks. Champagne bottles are popped, a group of girls laugh, and a bunch of young-looking crazy men join the strippers on the lit rotating stage. Is this even allowed?

The juveniles get even crazier, forming a PG-13 orgy, groping, kissing, making a mess. The scene is slightly nauseating, far from fun.

Looking away from their lustful eyes, cheeky grins, and the semi-nude strippers who appear to be enjoying themselves, I turn around, facing the broad back of my husband.

For a flashing moment, I’m stunned by his biceps flexing underneath the burgundy t-shirt that clings to his body likesecond skin. The expanse of his shoulders calls to my fingers, tempting them to touch him,to hold him.

When I stood in front of my mirror earlier this evening, after rummaging through my closet for the perfect outfit for tonight, I promised myself that I would relax and enjoy the night,withoutthinking of pouncing on him every minute.

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