MARKED BY THE MAFIA
Marked By The Mafia – Episode 29&30
[…BOUND BY DUTY…]
GENRE: Dark Romance
TAGS: MAFIAS, OBSESSION, POSSESSIVE, LOVE, STEAMY, LOVE TRIANGLE, EMPIRE, BETRAYAL, CRIME, VIOLENCE, DEATHS AND MANY MORE…
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✮{…FLASHBACK…}✮
EARLY HOURS, SICILY*
The car rolled to a stop on a quiet street in Sicily just as the first blush of dawn touched the rooftops. The city was still half-asleep, shutters closed, air cool and still.
Agnes stepped out first, clutching her small suitcase close to her chest. Her sandals clicked nervously against the cobblestones as she turned back to help with the heavier bags. Clothes, folded neatly, and a few bundles of herbs peeked from the half-zipped luggage.
She still didn’t quite understand.
Bianca had told Mother Superior that they were leaving for Sicily to visit a sick relative. She had spoken with such soft conviction that no one had doubted her. Agnes certainly hadn’t.
And now here she was far from Rome, her hands full of another woman’s belongings, her heart thrumming with unease.
Bianca stepped gracefully out of the car behind her, veil framing her delicate face, lips curved in the kind of smile that had always made Agnes trust her without question. She looked every inch the sweet, gentle sister Agnes knew her to be… quiet and devout.
Agnes tightened her grip on the luggage.
“I… I thought we were visiting family. But this place—” She glanced around at the shadowed streets, the silence that felt heavy rather than peaceful. “It doesn’t feel like a home”
Bianca only smiled wider, slipping her arm lightly through Agnes’s as though they were strolling back from evening prayers.
“You worry too much, there are things you’ll understand in time. For now, just walk with me, Agnes. Trust me”
And Agnes, despite the tightness in her chest, did.
Because Bianca was kind. Bianca was pure. Bianca was everything a nun should be.
At least, that’s what Agnes believed.
The narrow streets wound into a quieter quarter of the city, where the houses leaned close together, paint faded by sun and salt air. Birds stirred on the tiled roofs, their calls sharp against the pale morning.
Bianca led the way with her basket tucked neatly on her arm, veil brushing her shoulders. Agnes followed, her suitcase dragging slightly over the uneven stones. Her unease deepened with each step, though she said nothing.
They stopped in front of a small house, its shutters painted a peeling green. A thin line of smoke rose from the chimney, carrying the faint scent of herbs and wood.
Bianca’s hand lifted, knuckles rapping softly on the worn wooden door.
Almost at once, the door creaked open.
An old woman stood framed in the doorway, her gray hair tied back in a scarf, her face lined with years but her eyes startlingly sharp. And those eyes went straight to Bianca.
“You came” the woman said, her voice gravelly, certain as though she had been waiting all night.
Bianca smiled sweetly, bowing her head in respect. “Of course I did, Signora”
The old woman’s lips curved into the faintest smile before she stepped aside, opening the door wide. “I’ve kept everything ready. Come in, child”
Agnes blinked in surprise, clutching her suitcase tighter. “She… she knows you?”
Bianca only glanced back at her, her expression soft and innocent, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “Yes. She was expecting me”
Then she stepped inside, the hem of her veil brushing over the threshold.
Agnes hesitated a moment longer, heart thumping, before following her in.
The door closed behind them with a heavy finality, shutting out the dawn.
•••
MATTEO’S BEDROOM*
The room was heavy with shadows, curtains drawn tight against the morning light. The air smelled of smoke and s+×, bodies tangled in the aftermath.
Aurora stirred, her bare skin pressed against Matteo’s warmth. You are reading from www.mhiztaemy.com.ng At first, she thought he was sleeping peacefully, his arm slung lazily around her waist. But then…
A low sound tore from his throat.
Not a groan, not a sigh but something darker.
Aurora’s eyes fluttered open and she froze. Matteo’s jaw was clenched, sweat beading on his forehead, his powerful body rigid against hers. His hand twitched as though reaching for something that wasn’t there.
“No… don’t—” The words were hoarse, broken, forced through gritted teeth. His chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow bursts, like a man drowning in his own memories.
Aurora pushed herself up on her elbows, staring down at him. She had never seen him like this. Matteo Moretti, the man who wore violence like second skin, who ruled with fire and ice was trembling.
Her lips parted. “Matteo?”
His breathing hitched, his fists curling in the sheets. A raw, guttural whisper escaped him.
“Blood… mama—”
Aurora’s heart stopped.
She shook him lightly at first and then harder. “Matteo, wake up!”
His eyes snapped open, wild and unfocused. For a split second, she swore she didn’t recognize him. His chest heaved, muscles coiled tight like a predator about to strike.
Then recognition dawned.
He cursed under his breath and dragged a hand down his face, hiding whatever storm still lingered in his eyes. “F+k”
Aurora sat frozen, the echo of his nightmare still hanging between them. She had seen him brutal, ruthless, even cruel but never haunted.
She whispered, almost afraid. “What… what was that?”
Matteo turned his head slowly, his dark gaze locking onto her. For a heartbeat, she thought he might tell her.
Instead, his lips twisted into a cold half-smile, the armor snapping back into place.
“Nothing you need to know”
But Aurora knew better.
For the first time, she had seen the cracks in the monster.
She wasn’t about to let it go, not this time.
“Don’t lie to me, that wasn’t nothing. You were—” she hesitated, the word trembling on her tongue, “—calling for someone”
Matteo’s jaw tightened. He reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, trying to light one.
Aurora leaned closer, refusing to back down. “Why were you—”
“Enough” His tone was clipped and final.
But Aurora only pressed harder, her curiosity outweighing her fear.
“No. I want to know what you’re hiding, Matteo. I want to know why you—”
His hand slammed against the headboard with a crack, making her flinch. His voice roared through the room, raw and venomous.
“DROP IT, AURORA!”
The sound silenced her. His chest heaved, the veins in his neck taut, eyes burning with a fury that dared her to push again.
And for the first time he called her name. Not piccola bellezza. Not wifey but Aurora.
Aurora sat frozen, her heart racing, but her mind refused to let go of what she had just seen.
Because for the first time, she realized something terrifying.
Matteo Moretti had ghosts.
And they were killing him slowly.
Matteo swung his legs off the bed, the cigarette still between his fingers, smoke trailing as he stood. His broad back flexed as he pulled on his pants without a word.
Aurora quickly scrambled after him, dragging the sheet around herself, wrapping it tight as she hurried to keep up. you are reading from www.mhiztaemy.com.ng”Don’t walk away from me” she pressed, voice trembling with both anger and desperation. “You can’t just shut me out!”
He didn’t answer, just grabbed his shirt from the chair and yanked it over his head. His silence made her burn hotter.
“Matteo!” Aurora snapped, stepping in front of him, clutching the sheet to her chest.
“You were having a nightmare, and I saw it. I deserve to know—”
“You deserve nothing” he cut in.
But Aurora refused to move. “I’m your wife! If you think I’m going to keep pretending like I didn’t see what I saw—”
He shoved past her, his patience fraying. She followed, relentless, her bare feet padding across the marble floor.
“Matteo, i need to know” Aurora demanded, standing in his way again. “Tell me the truth for once!”
That was it.
Matteo’s hand shot out, gripping her arm but not hard enough to hurt, but with a force that made her breath hitch. He dragged her toward the bedroom door, the sheet tangling around her legs as she stumbled.
“Matteo—!”
The door slammed.
Aurora whirled around, just in time to hear the sharp click of the lock.
Her palms smacked against the wood. “Open this door! Matteo!” she shouted, banging with all her strength.
Outside, his footsteps echoed down the hall, steady and unhurried… as though her screams were nothing but background noise.
Inside, Aurora’s fists pounded harder, her voice breaking. “ou can’t keep doing this! You can’t just lock me away like I’m some prisoner!”
But there was no answer.
Only silence and that hurt more than anything.
•••
AT THE EMPIRE, PRIVATE RANGE*
“Boss”
“Boss”
Greetings were thrown his way, but he ignored them all, his silence was heavier than a shout.
He was only focused on where he was going.
The private shooting range.
He shoved it open.
The scent of gunpowder lived in the walls. Weapons lined the racks, polished, waiting. Matteo grabbed a Glock, slammed the magazine in, pulled the slide.
Click.
The first shot cracked through the room.
Bang.
The second tore into the target.
Bang.
The third was louder in his head than in the air.
And suddenly…
Blood, screams. His mother’s soft voice cut off too soon.
Bang.
FLASHBACK, 15 YEARS AGO*
The Moretti villa was alive that night with music drifting, glasses clinking, men laughing in the great hall. But in the garden, it was quiet.
Eleven year old Matteo sat cross-legged on the grass, his dark hair falling over his forehead, while his mother, Isabella Moretti, hummed softly. She was the only softness in his life, the only person who touched him gently.
“Matteo” she said with a smile, brushing his cheek. “One day, you’ll be free to choose your own path. Don’t let this life harden you”
He smiled faintly. “But Papa says—”
Her finger pressed to his lips. “Your papa… doesn’t understand love. But you—” she kissed his forehead—“you have my heart. Never forget that.”
The next moment, glass shattered.
The sound of gunfire split the night.
Isabella gasped, pulling Matteo into her arms. The garden lights flickered. Men stormed in through the back gate, guns raised, faces masked. Rival family.
“Run, Matteo!” she screamed, pushing him toward the hedges.
But Matteo’s small legs froze. He couldn’t move. His wide eyes locked on the chaos.
A gun fired. The bullet tore through her chest. Isabella staggered, red blooming across her dress like a cruel flower.
“Ma—!” His scream cracked as he lurched forward, catching her as she fell.
Her trembling hand cupped his face. Blood on her lips, her eyes soft even as they dimmed.
“Don’t cry, Matteo… my brave boy… don’t…”
Her hand dropped and her body went limp.
Matteo’s wail tore through the night
The attackers fled when the Moretti guards finally stormed in, but it was too late.
Too late
Later that night.
The villa was silent except for the cellar door slamming shut.
Darkness wrapped around Matteo, damp stone pressing in from all sides. His small fists pounded the locked door until they bled.
“Papa!” he screamed. “Papa, please! Ma’s gone, please!”
But only footsteps came.
Don Salvatore Moretti’s voice, deep and cold, drifted through the iron bars.
“Stop crying. Tears don’t bring back the dead”
“I—I saw her! They killed her!” Matteo sobbed, his voice raw.
“You saw nothing. You learned”
Matteo’s heart raced. He didn’t understand. He was only a boy.
The Don’s words cut through the dark like a blade:
“Feelings are a flaw. Women are weakness. Fear is for the dead”
Three days.
No food, no water, no light. Only his mother’s face replaying in his head, her last smile haunting him.
By the time the door creaked open again, the boy who stumbled out wasn’t the same.
•••
Two years later.
In a warehouse.
Thirteen year old Matteo stood with a gun too heavy for his thin arms. Before him knelt a man, gagged and bound, someone who had betrayed the family.
The same man who once gave Matteo candy with a smile.
His father’s hand clamped on his shoulder.
“Do it”
Matteo’s eyes burned, his chest ached. He really wanted to run.
“Papa, please—”
“Do it… or die beside him”
His small finger squeezed the trigger.
The gunshot rang out and the man crumpled.
Matteo stared at the blood spreading across the floor, his ears ringing. He waited for tears to come. For a scream.
But nothing came.
Something inside him had broken for good.
And Don Salvatore only smiled.
“Now you’re my son”
END OF FLASHBACK*
Matteo was already drenched in sweat. The gun still hot in his present-day hand, the shredded paper target before him. His chest heaves, but his eyes are dry. Always dry.
Because Matteo Moretti never cried again.
Matteo dropped the gun, its echo still bouncing off the walls of the private range. His breaths came harsh, uneven, like a man clawing his way back from the grave. Sweat clung to his back, his shirt sticking to the scars carved into his skin years ago.
His fingers trembled… but not from weakness. From rage. From memory.
His father had taught him well.
Three days in that cellar, hungry, parched, shivering in the dark. He had clawed at stone walls until his nails tore and bled. He had screamed until his throat cracked. Until his voice was nothing but a rasp.
And when no one came, he had learned.
No one saves you.
No one pities you.
No one actually cares.
That lesson had burned deeper than any scar.
He remembered the moment he stopped crying. The moment he pressed his bloody palms to his face and swore he’d never beg again. Never show weakness again.
That boy had died in that cellar.
What walked out three days later was no son, no child. He had become what his father wanted… stone wrapped in flesh.
And stone does not pity.
His eyes burned, not from tears. He hadn’t cried in fifteen years but from the sting of smoke curling around him.
Aurora’s voice haunted him faintly through the corridors of memory. Her fists pounding the door, her screams muffled by thick wood.
He had locked her away. Just as he had once been locked away.
But unlike him, she wasn’t supposed to learn. She wasn’t supposed to break.
And yet… he couldn’t stop himself.
Because pity was weakness. Because the echo of his mother’s death still clawed at his ribs. Because every time he almost reached for softness, he remembered how easily it could be stolen.
Bang.
His hand shot up, firing another round into the shredded target.
Bang.
Another, louder in his head than in the room.
Bang.
Until smoke blurred his vision and his ears rang, drowning out the phantom sound of his wife screaming his name.
He lowered the gun, chest heaving, eyes flat and empty.
If locking Aurora up made him the monster she thought he was… then so be it.
Because monsters don’t feel pity.
Monsters don’t bleed.
And monsters don’t cry.
His phone buzzed on the side bench. Once. Twice. Relentless.
He didn’t want to look, he didn’t want to be pulled out of his storm. But the fourth buzz made him snatch it up.
A message from Ace.
One image.
Matteo’s eyes narrowed as the screen lit up. A photograph of a familiar face wrapped in holy white, a black veil framing her delicate features. Bianca.
Arriving in Sicily as a nun.
For a long second, Matteo just stared. The corner of his mouth twitched.
A low scoff tore from his throat, sharp and humorless.
“Bianca? Nun my foot”
His thumb dragged across the screen, zooming in on her serene little smile, her hands clasped like she belonged to God.
But Matteo knew better.
The devil wore many masks.
And if Bianca thought she could fool him, she had just made her biggest mistake.
•
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TBC😈
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