Mafia Don’s Little Silent Wife Chapter 10

Mafia Don’s Little Silent Wife Chapter 10

Once Bianca stopped pretending, it felt like a seal had been broken.

She talked more.

Her temper grew.

Most importantly, her tongue turned sharp.

“Rocco, that gray tie is hideous. Throw it away.”

“Rocco, do you know you snore?”

“Rocco, you held me too tight yesterday. My waist hurts.”

I sat on the couch listening to this person, who had been playing deaf and mute just days ago, lecture me.

It gave me a bizarre sense of satisfaction.

The first time Vincent heard her speak, he nearly crashed into the doorframe.

“Donna, you… you can talk?”

Bianca flashed him a smile. “Yes.”

Vincent turned to look at me with sheer desperation in his eyes, as if saying, Don, you were played for over half a year and you’re actually smiling?

“Don, then the sign language Donna used before… the one that meant ‘amazing’…”

“Don’t ask.”

“But I really want to know.”

“It means ‘you arrogant idiot,’ Bianca chimed in from the side.

Vincent’s jaw dropped.

He looked at her, then at me, then back at her.

Then he vanished as fast as his legs could carry him.

The moment the door slammed shut, he yelled from the hallway,
“Donna, I’ll keep my mouth shut. I swear!”

Of course, he blabbed anyway.

Within a week, the entire Moretti family knew.

The reactions from the extended branches of the family were
spectacular.

Maria’s face stayed dark for three days.

Remembering everything she had said right in front of Bianca at the
family dinner, she reportedly rushed to make a massive donation to
the family priest that very night.

Another wife sent three consecutive apology messages.

No one replied.

I looked at the notifications and tossed my phone to Bianca. “Want to
answer?”

She glanced at it, took the phone, and typed an answer back:
[Received.]

Perfectly cold.

Just like I taught her.

The situation with the Costa family eventually wrapped up, too.

His partnership with the Ricci family fell apart.

The exact reasons didn’t matter.

What mattered was that the shipping lines at the eastern docks were now entirely run by Moretti men.

Costa himself came to the estate once to beg for peace.

Vincent brought him into the drawing room.

Before I could even head down, Bianca walked down the stairs.

She stopped halfway down the staircase, looking down at Costa.

Just one look.

Then she turned to me. “Let him wait. Eat your breakfast first.”

Costa’s face flushed with a mixture of shame and fury.

Vincent told me later that was the exact moment he truly recognized Bianca as Donna.

Not because she married me, but because when she stood there, everyone in the estate knew she was the one to listen to.

I took my time finishing breakfast before going to see Costa.

What exactly was said between us didn’t really matter.

But by the time he left, his spine was bent incredibly low.

From that day on, the estate staff and enforcers stopped calling her just Mrs. Moretti.

They started calling her Donna Bianca.

After sending Costa off, I returned to the living room.

Bianca was curled up on the couch watching television, wearing fluffy slippers and chewing on a strawberry.

I walked over, sat down right next to her, and threw my arm over her shoulder.

“The way you handled things just now, I almost thought you were the boss of this house.”

She turned her head, swallowing the strawberry. “Am I not?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Fine. Then, Boss, go pour me a glass of water.”

“Pour it yourself.”

“No. I want you to do it.”

“Your legs aren’t broken.”

“It’s not my legs that are lacking, it’s the service.”

She rolled her eyes but stood up anyway.

I watched her walk toward the kitchen.

Narrow waist, long legs.

Her slippers padded softly against the floor.

Her voice drifted out from the kitchen. “Honey or ice?”

“You.”

Silence lasted for two seconds.

Then a fluffy slipper came flying out of the kitchen, smacking me right on the shin.

I laughed out loud.

This woman had pretended to be deaf for seven months.

She had called me an arrogant idiot for seven months and listened to every single secret I was never supposed to share with an outsider.

Anyone else would’ve been buried in one of Moretti’s old warehouses by now.

But she was different.

She stood in my kitchen, wearing fluffy slippers, calling me an idiot.

And I, Rocco Moretti, willingly handed over the keys to the entire Moretti estate.

So worth it.