All Chapters of My Runaway Mafia Groom Wants Me Back: Chapter 61 - Chapter 68

EmmelineMorning is soft in this house. Soft light on the kitchen tile. Soft voices. Soft laughter from the bathroom where Asher lets Jackson make a tidal wave out of bath time.Pregnancy isn’t soft on me, unfortunately. I’m nauseous and ravenous by turns, but the family rhythm is a lullaby I didn’t believe I’d ever get to experience.Maria slides a plate in front of me. Toast, eggs, strawberries.“For the bambina,” she says, and I don’t correct her even though nobody knows what we’re having yet. Of course everyone knows I’m pregnant. Secrecy is for strangers, not the people who would bleed for you.Caterina enters in bare feet and a silk robe, a novel tucked under her arm like a shield. She looks toward the hall where Bruce is a passing shadow, doing his silent checks. Her mouth goes soft around the edges in a way that would be funny if it weren’t so… sweet.“Asher is teaching Jackson Italian curse words,” she announces, pouring coffee. “Your child will be sent home from school by el

EmmelineThe house is too quiet after midnight. I lie awake and listen to the faint hush of cars down on the avenue. My hand rests on my stomach like a promise and a threat. I am not prey. I am a mother. Those are different animals.Asher comes in at one twenty-three, tie in his pocket, coat open, winter air clinging to him.“How was it?” I ask.He meets my eyes in the mirror, loosening his cuffs. “Contained.”“Contained is not a report. It’s a prayer.”A beat of amusement ghosts across his mouth and dies. “I met the captains. Not all. A handful. Enough to make it clear things have changed.”“Did you say the words?” I sit up, knees to my chest, the strap of my negligee falling down to my collarbone. “Did you claim your crown back?”“Not yet.” He turns, taking me in like I’m a cliff he has to climb. “I won’t swing a wrecking ball through our life because a grandmother in widow’s black wants to play chess from Palermo.”“She nearly set fire to our son’s school,” I say, voice even. “She

EmmelineI’m halfway through a piece of toast when my phone starts vibrating across the counter like it wants to escape.Three texts from Sarah. Elias’s campaign manager.You seeing this???Turn on Cityline.We need you at HQ.I unmute the TV and the caption slaps me in the face. IS THE BOY SCOUT A BAGMAN? Elias’s smiling campaign photo sits beside a grainy still of Asher stepping out of a black car. The segment host has the smooth voice of a snake oil salesman.“Anonymous financial records obtained overnight appear to show a pattern of-”I don’t hear the rest. I’m already scrolling the linked article. Screenshots. Red circles. Arrows. A “timeline” that stitches unrelated events into a story where Elias is Asher’s friendly neighborhood money launderer.Asher appears in the doorway, tie loose, shirt sleeves rolled, dangerously sexy without trying. “What happened?”“Vescari happened,” I say, shoving my arms into the coat. “They’re hitting Elias. Anonymous bank records, out-of-context ph

EmmelineHe locks the door without looking away from me.Click. The kind of sound that lands between my ribs and blooms there.“Come here,” Asher says.The coat slides from his shoulders, heavy with rain. His hands find my jaw like he’s checking the hinge on a door he intends to walk through.He moves first. No preamble. No safety rails except the ones we always keep for each other. Mouth on mine, pressure decisive, that bite-soft glide that strips thought and leaves the body fluent.My back meets the wall. My palms find his shoulders. He’s warm through the shirt. Solid. The kind of strength that isn’t just muscle but power.His hand brackets my throat, squeezing lightly, heat and claim, his thumb finding the flutter of my pulse. “Breathe.”I do. In on a three-count, out on a five. The world steadies and then tilts harder when he kisses the point under my ear that unspools my spine. My head hits the wall with a soft thud. He catches it with his palm and laughs like a sinner in church.