Bought By The Mafia CEO

Make this Marriage Real

The penthouse smelled like antiseptic and rain.

Dr. Bianchi, a man who never asked questions, stitched Alessandro's chest in silence. Four stitches, right over the M of MATTEO. Blood still on black sheets.

Alessandro didn't flinch. He didn't look at needle. He looked at Elena.

She sat on edge of bed, his oversized t-shirt still on, bare feet wrapped in white bandages — glass cuts from warehouse floor. Her split lip. Her shaking hands holding his big hand.

"You're hurting her," she whispered to doctor, when needle went in.

Dr. Bianchi smiled tiredly. "Mrs. De Luca, he has been shot twice before. This is nothing."

Mrs. De Luca. She still wasn't used to it.

When doctor left, leaving ointment and warning — "No stress, no s*x for 48 hours, Mr. De Luca" — Alessandro laughed for first time.

"Doctor thinks he can order me."

He turned to Elena. Grey eyes dark, tired, but burning.

"Come here."

Elena moved closer. He pulled her onto his lap, careful of her feet. His bare chest inches from her face, tattoo inches away, fresh stitches.

"You bled for me, principessa."

"You bled on my sheets first," she whispered.

He took her chin, tilting up so he could see lip.

"At warehouse, when you held my gun... do you know what I thought?"

"What?"

"I thought, if I die tonight, at least I die seeing my wife in my t-shirt holding my gun trying to kill for me. No De Luca woman ever did that."

Elena's eyes filled. "I thought you were dead. There was blood —"

"I left to kill Old Man. Luca said he found him at pier. I didn't want you to wake alone, so I left guard. But Romano's men cut my chest when I got there. Nothing. Just to get me on knees for show."

He pressed her hand over his heart. Over MATTEO. Over stitches.

"Feel?"

Thump. Thump. Thump. Fast, hard.

"This heart beat for revenge for 7 years. Since Matteo died. Then you came with red dress and bare feet and mouth that says no to me. And it started beating for you."

Elena couldn't breathe. This was not the cold CEO who said "Sign."

This was a man with blood on chest asking.

"Elena Rossi, my contract wife. My blood contract. I want to make it real. Tonight. No paper. No $2 million. You in my bed because you want. Not because you must. Say yes and I will worship your bandaged feet for rest of life. Say no and I will still sleep on floor with gun and never touch you."

He leaned his forehead to hers. Blood, antiseptic, rain, cologne — all him.

"Be my wife. For real."

Elena looked at his tattoo, his stitches, his grey eyes that had cried for brother, his hands that broke bones for her.

She thought of her mother, safe now in next room sleeping with nurse Luca posted. She thought of her father, finally proven innocent tonight because Alessandro believed her.

She thought of two weeks late.

She hadn't told anyone. She had been sick morning, thought stress.

She touched his chest, over MATTEO, over blood.

"Alessandro... what if I'm already —" Her voice broke. "What if I missed —"

His eyes widened. Understanding in one second. Mafia CEO, 32, who calculates everything.

He stood — ignoring chest pain — and walked to bathroom. Came back with small white box. Pregnancy test. Unopened.

"Luca bought it. When you were vomiting yesterday, I thought —" He knelt. On floor. In front of her. Bleeding, bandaged, 6'3" man on knees for 5'6" girl. "Take it. Now. I want to know with you."

Elena's hands shook so hard she couldn't open box.

Alessandro opened it for her. Helped her to bathroom.

Two minutes that felt like seven years.

She sat on cold tile, bandaged feet, his t-shirt, watching stick.

One line. Then — faint second line. Pink. Very faint, but there.

Elena gasped, hand over mouth.

Alessandro picked up test, stared. Grey eyes filled with something she had never seen — tears.

He looked at her. Then at her flat belly. Then back at her.

"Principessa." His voice was hoarse. "Is this —?"

"I don't know — I missed two weeks — I thought stress —"

He didn't let her finish.

He picked her up from bathroom floor, carried her to bed — his bed — and laid her down like she was glass.

He knelt again, pressed his face to her belly, over t-shirt, over faint line.

His shoulders shook.

Seven years since Matteo died, Alessandro De Luca had not cried. Not at funeral. Not when he became CEO.

Now he cried on belly of girl he bought for revenge.

"Matteo," he whispered in Italian, to tattoo, to brother, to God. "We have family again."

Elena tangled hands in his black hair, crying too.

"Alessandro, we don't know for sure, it's faint —"

"It's my child." He said, possessive, obsessed, absolute. "My blood. Like you are my blood. You can't leave now. Ever."

He climbed into bed, careful of her feet, careful of his chest, and locked arm around her waist, hand splayed over her belly, over t-shirt.

"Doctor said 48 hours no stress, no s*x. So we sleep. Tomorrow we go to doctor. Tonight you sleep here, in my bed, as real wife. Contract is burned."

Elena whispered: "You burned $2 million contract?"

"I burned it when you picked up my gun barefoot."

She laughed through tears, then winced — lip.

He kissed her lip, soft, over split.

"Sleep, Mrs. De Luca. And Mrs. De Luca's baby."

For first time since her father died, Elena felt not alone. Not poor designer. Not bought wife.

She was blood. She was mother. She was safe in arms of man who would burn city for her.

Outside, Luca posted two more guards. Old Man Romano was locked in container watching his docks burn on live feed.

Inside, Mafia CEO slept with hand on belly that might hold his heir, tattoo MATTEO rising and falling with breath.