His Italian Wife Mga Nobela at Kwento

“Dominic Vitiello, motherfucker. Head of the Italian mafia; husband to the head of the Spanish Cartel; son-in-law to….ahh….I do not think I need to give you the details. You only need to know three things; One, Silas here is my friend, meaning his son is my friend too.” He pats us on the back. I turned to Dad, but he didn’t seem fazed by the contact. “Secondly, I have quite a lot to do today. My wife planned a picnic for our family. So be a good dog, and let these people be on their way so I don’t have to call your boss’ boss’ boss. And finally, my wife hates it when I’m late for family dinners….and I’m only scared of a disappointed wife. Do I need to tell you what I’ll do to you if my wife

"Because you were my best friend." Something in his deep, quiet voice sent a flutter through my chest. Before the silence could get too heavy, a waiter approached our table. "Good evening. Are you ready to order?" I scanned the Italian menu helplessly. "What's good here?" "The truffle tagliatelle," Liam answered immediately without looking at his menu. I blinked in surprise. "How do you know?" "You've always ordered it." "I have?" "Yes," he said softly. "With extra parmesan, and absolutely no mushrooms."

"He even feels sorry for me all the time, saying my parents favored sons over daughters and that I suffered because of it. He turns a blind eye to me supporting my 'brother.' What an idiot!” "Why wouldn't I take advantage of a guy like this? His money is there for me and my son to spend!" I stared at my phone screen, my fingers trembling uncontrollably. Vivienne Carter was my wife. For five years, she constantly cried in front of me, saying she was neglected by her parents since childhood and forced to drop out of school to support her brother's education. Every single word oozed self-pity.

I should have focused on running away, finding Ralph, but time flipped back as he threw his head back laughing like I just told him a joke. When his eyes met mine again, he tsked, waving his finger. “He is not my son. My son is buried back in Italy. Killed by the murderer you call your husband and betrayed by the woman he was going to marry.” He playfully took a strand of my hair and rolled it around his finger. I shut my eyes at the proximity. “How does it feel, Rara? To drive someone to their death.” “That was not my fault—“ I was cut off by his deep growl. His eyes fuming red and fists balled beside my head.

His words were just starting to sink in and I could feel my heart start to pound harshly against my ribs. Marriage?! “But… but, I’m not up to nineteen yet.” I whispered in a shaky voice, in case he had forgotten that tiny detail about me like he always does. Here in Italy, daughters from prestigious families are given out in marriage once they’re nineteen. I wasn’t up to nineteen yet, so I had always thought I was safe for now. “Yes, I know that. But you’re already over eighteen, which is all that matters.” He said and then he began to flip through a document on his desk.

"Jerome, you can't be this cold. Talia's your wife! You're really sending her to prison yourself? Without her, these kids won't have a mother!" It made my stomach turn. Now he just said it out loud—she's my wife. No shame. I almost wanted to slap myself for bringing him into her life. "You good? Talia's your wife. Your kids' mom. What's she got to do with me? You wanted what wasn't yours. You stabbed me in the back. Now you pay." As they dragged Talia off, she twisted back and spat, "I put up with being your wife for seven years—that's more than you deserved. You think you're some prize?

His words are heavily drenched in his accent. "You'll never get the opportunity to find out," A deep voice booms through the restroom and instantly I sigh with relief. "If you want to survive long enough to at least attempt to hurt me. I suggest you let my wife go or I will put two bullets into the back of your fucking head you Italian scum." My husband's voice is cold, calculating and full of fury. Castello's eyes never leave mine and he sighs, "Pitty, I was hoping to take your wife for a test drive myself. Since I'm about the only man she hasn't spread her legs for." He growls with his breath fanning my face.

She passed me a sad smile and I immediately regretted asking such a question. "I'm so sorry." I quickly apologized. "No, no. It's fine, Pari." She patted my shoulder before returning to washing the plates. "You know, I am happy that you and Enzo decided to get married out of love and not out of duty." Her happy smile was back on her face. What was she talking about? "I never imagined falling in love with my husband eventually. He was the Capo of the Costa Nostra and our marriage was purely out of a necessity to create a strong alliance with one of the Mafia families back home in Italy."

Marco asked, looking at me with a smile while he shook hands with Mario. “Yes, this is my wife, Gia,” Mario answered. “She’s beautiful,” Marco complimented me. “She is, isn’t she?” Mario queried with an irritated face because Marco looked at me longer than he was supposed to. Marco noticed the change in his tone and then looked away from me and looked at Mario. “I was out of the country; I just returned this morning. I’m sorry I missed your wedding,” Marco said to settle the dust in the air. “It’s okay. I’m glad to see you here,” Mario answered.

Aria didn't back off the staring session as she looked into his eyes, not letting him intimidate her. "I don't care about your patience! And don't call me your wife until and unless you declare it to the world. Who knows about our marriage in Bratva, Aleksandr. You made a mockery of me among my soldiers. Among Cosa Nostra and your side of people are not aware that their queen is Italian. How is this fair?" "They know about Dinara. Your brother made sure of it!" He snapped at her.