The Mafia Secret Wife

My husband was supposed to be dead or so I thought. 

Today, I walked into a hotel and found him putting an engagement ring on another woman's finger. Roman De Luca was alive and apparently, he had never planned on coming back to me.

“The VIP guest has arrived," my manager’s voice buzzed inside my earpiece. "Everyone looks sharp. He’s early." 

This job at the exclusive hotel keeps the lights on and mostly a roof over our heads. I came here for a fresh start, to build something and finally become someone.

But that plan became shattered the moment the huge glass doors of the hotel lobby swung open. 

A rush of cold air blew on the smooth floor, cutting right through my thin uniform jacket. 

He strode across the lobby, his broad shoulders filling out a custom made suit. His dark hair was pushed back, exposing a clean jawline and eyes like a hawk. He looked different from the man I married years ago. But the man walking toward me carried only the dark, overwhelming aura of a killer. 

I quickly dropped my head, letting my long hair fall forward to hide my face. I grabbed a stack of guest folders and pretended to organize them. My chest heaving as I tried to blend into the background. 

"Mr. De Luca!" a reporter shouted, pushing a microphone past the line of guards. "Is it true? Are you announcing your official engagement to the Moretti family at the gala tonight?" 

“Mr. De Luca, why have you suddenly decided to make an appearance on television after staying out of the public eye for so long?”

Roman stopped. He turned slowly toward the flashing cameras, a cold, ruthless smile appeared on his lips. "The rumors are true. Tonight, the De Luca and Moretti families will be united."  He continued, “I didn't come here to be seen. I came here to make sure everyone knows I'm still in control.”  The reporter could feel a heavy pressure on him.

I felt my stomach churn with his words. He was publicly marrying someone else, completely erasing the secret vows we made to each other in that small chapel. I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat and stepped backward, trying to slip through the door behind the desk. I had found a way to escape before he looked my way. 

My heel caught the edge of a metal trash bin and it tipped over, clattering loudly on the floor.

The small noise echoed out in the lobby and I froze. 

Roman’s head whipped around instantly. His icy gaze moved over the tables, passed the staff, and locked directly to my eyes. 

My mouth felt dry instantly as I noticed Roman stiffened mid-breath. His ruthless smile was completely gone now replaced by shock that made his silver eyes widen. He took a small step toward me, completely ignoring the reporters.

Fear slammed my chest, I could feel my breath suffocating. My palms were instantly sweaty. He sees me. God, he sees me. I need to hide, he can't see me. I desperately prayed for the ground to swallow me instantly.

​I dropped the guest folders onto the counter with trembling hands, turned on my heel, and practically sprinted through the service door behind the front desk. I needed to hide. I needed to disappear.

​I made it halfway down the corridor before heavy footsteps echoed behind me. A sudden, rock-hard hand clamped around my wrist, spinning me around before I could even scream.

​"What are you doing here, Mia?" Roman’s voice was a dark, dangerous rumble. His eyes raked over my face, searching desperately for answers. "Why did you come to this city?"

Three years of complete silence, and that is the first thing he asks me? No ‘are you okay,'* no I missed you,' just a harsh demand like I am a trespasser in his world. He never came looking for me then, and he certainly does not get to demand answers from me now.

​"Let me go, Roman," I hissed, pushing against his chest. It felt like trying to move solid marble. "I work here. Or I did, until you walked in." 

God, it hurts. Deep down, I just wanted an excuse for why he disappeared. I needed something to justify why I still wanted him, so I wouldn't feel so pathetic.

​"Mia, listen to me….”

​Before he could finish, every light in the hallway flickered once, twice, and died. The hotel plunged into pitch-black darkness. Emergency lights clicked on a second later, drowning the hallway in an eerie red glow.

BANG BANG BANG

Gunshots erupted in the building as screams erupted from the main building. Roman grabbed my waist and shoved me behind him, using his massive body as a shield. He drew a sleek black firearm from beneath his suit jacket with deadly speed as two of his bodyguards rounded the corner, weapons drawn.

​"Protect the perimeter!" Roman barked, firing down the hall as armed men in tactical gear burst into the corridor.

The loud crackle of gun fire was deafening. Roman held me tight against his chest with one arm, firing with a deadly precision with the other.  Glass exploded from the decorative wall mirror, leaving sharp shreds all over the red carpet. 

Through the smoke and flashing gunfire, I caught sight of one of the attackers standing near the exit. He wasn't firing at Roman's men. He was holding a phone in one hand, staring directly at me. I watched as his camera flashed once, capturing my face before he turned and melted into the shadows.

​"Roman, he took my picture!" I gasped, but as I tried to point toward the exit, a searing pain shot through my leg.

​A massive piece of fallen glass had sliced through my calf. My knees buckled instantly.

 “Mia!

Roman caught me before I hit the floor. He glanced toward the exit where the gunman had fled, his instinct screaming at him to give chase. But then he looked down at the blood soaking through my uniform.

​Without a second thought, Roman scooped me up into his arms, abandoning his men, the firefight, and his own security protocols.

​He kicked open the heavy glass doors leading to the front driveway, carrying me straight out into the cool night air.

​Dozens of reporters, cameras, and fleeing guests were packed along the driveway. The flashing lights of arriving police cars washed over us. Blinding flashbulbs began popping endlessly as the crowd caught sight of Roman De Luca, the ruthless heir emerging from the chaos with an unknown, blood-stained hotel worker cradled tenderly against his chest.

​"Mr. De Luca! Was this a hit by a rival family?!"

​"Who is the woman, Mr. De Luca?!"

​Isabella Moretti rushed out through the VIP entrance, her designer dress slightly torn, surrounded by her own security detail. Her eyes widened in pure fury as she saw Roman holding me.

The entire driveway fell dead silent. Everyone turned toward us, waiting for the denial that would save his reputation and his high-society engagement.

​Roman looked down at me for one long, silent second.

​Then, he pulled me tighter against his chest, locking his gaze with the cameras.

​"Yes."