THE MAFIA WIFE

YOUR SMILE BELONGS TO ME

SEBASTIAN POV

"Marriage pact,” Natalie says, her voice wavering, as the crowd claps. "It's all just for fun.”

“Step forward, please," the hostess instructs.

I extended my hands to her.

I noticed the reluctance in her before she placed her hand in mine. I feel her pulse spikes beneath my finger.

“So I get to marry you for twenty-four hours," Mister Mystery Natalie says, trying to hide her nervousness with a smile.

“Relax. We can play along," I said. “Or we can walk out and let the world talk. Your choice.”

“It's just a game,” she says, signing the novelty contract card.

“Let's get you home, wifey.”

Five hours later, I watch the sun crest over the horizon on my penthouse terrace.

But my attention isn't on the view.

My attention was on the laptop screen.

Natalie sleeping.

The rise and fall of her chest is mesmerizing. Her body relaxed against the bed, her long hair spilling over the pillow and falling across her bed. Her body was clad in matching lingerie.

I simply watch.

I shouldn't.

Torn between the desire to close the distance between us and the discipline that has never failed me—until her.

Every instinct I have sharpened over years of control was telling me to pull back. And for the first time in a long time, I was not entirely sure I would listen.

The obsession I have toward this girl hasn't waned like I expected. In fact, it has only intensified. I have switched from watching the camera feed from my laptop to my phone, especially when I am in meetings.

I tell myself it's practical. The attempt to categorize monitoring her as a mere routine task is a self-deception that cannot be sustained.

I have this unexplained, itchy reaction beneath my skin whenever I am unaware of her location or what she is doing.

I didn't want this.

It's an inescapable reality for me.

Some days ago I asked Elijah to hack into the CCTV at her workplace and route the feed directly to my phone.

That's how I knew she would be at the club tonight.

The sound of my phone ringing drifts my attention from my laptop screen.

“We have an intruder down in the basement,” Elijah says.

“Who ratted him out?”

“A bartender at one of our casinos, he asked the wrong question from a wrong man. We followed up from there," Elijah said.

“Tell Daniel not to kill him before I get down there.” I need him alive; I need to know his supplier and also who he works for.

Weeks ago, before the discovery of my new obsession, information got to me about someone selling drugs in my city. I was more concerned when I got a call from one of the officers on my payroll about a sixteen-year-old college boy who overdosed and died. My men know better than to sell drugs to minors.

“He is not talking. No name. No plea. No curse. His silence is deliberate, as if he has rehearsed this as the consequence of his actions,” Elijah says as soon as he sees me walking down the hallway that leads to the basement.

Hmm…he's a loyal dog to his boss, I see.

The moment I stepped into the basement, I saw teeth spattered on the floor, broken fingers, and the electrode hum softly, ready.

The moment he saw me, I saw fear in his eyes.

He began to shake violently against the chair; the ropes dug into his wrist, and his breath came out in broken gasps.

Then he spoke—barely audible.

“The walking death.”

“Death ends suffering. What I'm about to give you today is worse than death; I will deny you mercy if you don't give me the information I want. ”.

“Unlike Daniel, I don't ask questions repeatedly.”

I glanced at Daniel.

“Pluck out one of his eyes.”

The scream that followed is immediate. He screamed until darkness enveloped him.

Then–

"The Albanians!” he choked out, barely audible. “I work with the Albanians!”

After physical and psychological torment, his body trembled violently; with a little shudder, he collapsed into unconsciousness.

“Get the doctor from the infirmary; I need a name from him.”

I leave the basement and get into my car.

I brought my phone.

I call Louis.

“Where is she?” I asked.

“At the vet clinic. I will let you know when she gets home.”

“Text me the address.”

I end the call.

Unfamiliar emotions washed over me the moment I walked into the clinic hallway.

The vet doctor leans so close to Natalie.

His hand rests on her shoulder while he explains something unique about the dog.

It turned into a full-blown rage when I saw her smile at the doctor.

Not wide.

Not flirtatious.

But still the sudden urge to destroy rises inside me.

I took a step forward.

“Doctor,” I said evenly, lifting his hand off her shoulder, “keep your hands, expression, and professionalism in check."

His eyes flick between us.

“Keep your hands to yourself when you speak to my wife. And mind how you look at her."

Natalie turned slowly, her eyes widening with shock as I moved so close to her.

I tuck her hair behind her ear, my thumb brushing her cheek slightly.

“Your smile—all of it—belongs to me, your husband.” I said it low enough for only her to hear.

I noticed the flush rising to her cheek before she hid it.

It soothes and eases the rage in my chest, knowing my touch makes her blush.

She opens her mouth to say something.

“Sorry I’m late,” I cut in, wrapping my arm around her waist.

She wrinkles her nose at me but says nothing.

"I didn't know you were married, Anita," the doctor said.

“Now you know. Finish up the paperwork for my wife's dog.” I said without shifting my gaze from Natalie.

“What a dramatic entrance.” Natalie mutters immediately as we step outside.

“Anything for my beautiful wifey.”

“How many hours more until this contract game expires?” she asked.

“Enough,” I say, “to take you to a charity gala tonight.”

“Do I at least get to know the name of the man I'm married to before I attend a charity gala with him?” she asked.

I ignore her question.

Some questions are better left unanswered.

Timing matters.

“Why adopt a dog?” I asked, glancing at the small bundle of fur held against her chest.

“I have always wanted a pet, especially a dog, a Pomeranian breed.” She said, combing her fingers through the fur of the dog.

I nod towards the car, my hand claiming the space at her back.

“The stylist will be at your place,” I said, my voice low and deliberately clear, leaving no room for questions or argument. “Seven o’clock. I'll be there to pick you up.”

My eyes lingered on her for a few minutes, taking in every line of her face.

Then I nod at Louis.

The car pulled away, but I could still catch her gaze on me—

curious.

Sharp.

Bold.