Page 13 of Broken Mafia Bride (His to Break #2)

GIULIA

Most days, the worst thing I worry about is over-whipping the cream. Today shouldn’t be any different.

“Have we run out of scones?” Alex calls from outside the kitchen.

“I’m making a new batch,” I reply, squeezing the icing onto the cupcake, tongue sticking out the corner of my mouth.

“You know, you don’t have to bother yourself making every single one of them perfect,” Olive, the owner of the bakery, says. “Nobody’s going to care that each flower on the cupcake is perfectly centered.”

Heat rises in my cheeks at her words. Baking is one of the things I picked up after Mama died, to try and get Papa to pay me some attention again. I eventually quit when I realized I was wasting my time.

The few times since then that I’ve bothered with a cup of flour and sugar have been solely for the sake of decompressing. I forgot how fun and invigorating it felt until Mrs. Amato casually brought it up after tasting the cake I made for Noemi’s fourth birthday.

Olive used to be the grumpy cashier on the night shift at a store we worked at two years ago. Even though we had our moments, we became good friends.

When she got married over a year ago, she told me she was quitting and using her inheritance to start her own business.

Back then, I used to bring my pastries to work, and she loved them.

She had always wanted to buy the pastry shop her aunt owned after she passed away from cancer.

It had been shut down since, and she hoped it wouldn’t be sold before she got her inheritance. Luckily for her, it wasn’t.

Of course, she offered me a job. The pay was better, and it was something I was good at, so I took it. I’ve been here ever since.

“Leave her alone.” Alex pokes his head in and winks at me. “We’ve been selling out since she started working here. Allow her to do whatever magic she’s been doing. In fact, she deserves a raise!”

“Thank you,” I mouth at him over the boss’s shoulder, and he winks again.

“But please, get those scones ready,” he sighs. “Our customers are about to come to blows over the last batch.”

“Got ya.” I salute him.

“I’ll handle the icing,” Olive says. “I feel kinda bad I can’t get them as perfect as you. We’ll just hide mine at the back.”

“Yours are perfect too.” I grin at her before hurrying over to the sink to wash my hands and grab the bag of flour.

Almost an hour later, I step out with the heavy cooling tray of scones.

“Smokin’ hot, just like the baker,” someone wolf-whistles behind me.

Laughing, I spin around and face Sienna. She’s usually in colorful clothes, but today her hair is tied up with a black bandana, and she’s wearing denim overalls over a black T-shirt. Paint stains her hands, and there’s even some under her chin.

“What have you been up to?” I ask curiously. “Did you decide being a doctor is no longer your thing?”

“Not yet,” she teases. “I somehow found myself volunteering under pressure to join the other moms to paint the daycare. I thought they’d forget all about it until I got the call this morning.” She lets out a sigh.

About two years ago, at one of the now-regular family dinners, Sienna announced she was pregnant with twins and getting married out of the blue. It came as a shock, and her news was welcomed with a lot of protests. It all died down when we met her quiet and stoic builder fiancé.

Reed is the opposite of her in every way, but from the moment we met him, we all knew it was a perfect match.

I grin at how dramatic she’s being. “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

“While I trust myself with a scary ass needle and a delicate network of veins, the same can’t be said for anything artsy,” she points out. “I knew it was bad when the owner of the daycare walked up to me and suggested I should just talk to the other moms instead.”

A laugh splutters out of me, and I hurriedly slap a palm over my mouth even though it’s too late. She shoots me a dirty look. “You’re no longer my best friend.”

“I’m sorry, Si,” I laugh. “How didn’t you know you were so bad? You colored outside the lines back when you used to help Noemi with her art homework.”

She groans. “They’re never going to let me join the moms’ association, and my babies won’t have any friends.”

“You’re being dramatic,” I wave her off, moving over to the showcase to get her a cinnamon roll. “Noemi used to threaten to feed the other kids to the boogie man when they came up to her, but she’s still managed to get friends.”

The redhead pulls a face. “I’m sorry, Ariel, but your kid’s friend thinks he’s Batman. I don’t think this is the moral lesson I want to hear right now.”

“Shut up.” I grin, passing the pastry over.

She rubs her hands together gleefully, tongue swiping over her lips in delight, before she grabs the roll and takes one large bite. “Oh god!” she moans. “Oh god.”

“Does your husband know you’re cheating on him with cinnamon rolls?”

“What Reed doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Just then, my phone alarm goes off. “Shit, I need to get Noemi,” I mutter, already untying my apron and snatching my purse from the locker. “Alex, I’m leaving!”

“Bye.” He waves at me distractedly.

“I’m going to leave you here to drown your embarrassment with pastries and a latte,” I tell Sienna.

She continues to moan over every bite of the cinnamon roll. Laughing, I rush out of the bakery. The school is eight blocks from where I work, which is another reason why working at Olive’s bakery is the perfect job.

I never want to be stuck in traffic—or anywhere else—and constantly picking up my kid late. At school, I was the one always left behind, sitting alone on the playground, trying not to cry, knowing my father had forgotten I existed. Again.

I shake my head to clear that memory. Regardless of all the plans and discussions Raffaele and I made, I don’t know what kind of father he’d be…

Or if he’s even still interested in having a kid.

I have no idea what direction his life has gone in, and not even all my obsessive internet sleuthing has managed to give me meaningful information.

It was easy to find out how Isabella was doing. Her Instagram is still active—or at least, I’ve been stalking it through other people’s accounts ever since I got my memory back. Outings, shopping trips, dinner dates. All smiles, like nothing has changed.

Meanwhile, our side of Chicago is burning.

I don’t know the full details, and I guess the mafia families are doing their best to cover it up, but I’ve seen at least three sources that have confirmed that our territories haven’t been safe in a while.

I suspect that it still has a lot to do with the Gagliardi and Montanari family feud—furthermore proving I made the right choice by staying put.

No way in hell am I taking my daughter into that mess.

I don’t want Noemi caught in the middle of that feud.

I’m not delusional enough to think that just because she’s half Gagliardi and half Montanari, her presence will somehow unite both sides.

If Edoardo and my father are still the men I know, they’ll turn my daughter into a pawn, each side pulling at her like dogs fighting over the last piece of meat.

My biggest fear isn’t the past catching up to me—it’s the moment my daughter looks me in the eye and asks where her father is.

I’ve thought about taking the easy way out.

Letting Marco slip into the role, pretending the pieces fit neatly into some perfect picture.

It would be easier. Safer. But it wouldn’t be true.

And the day Noemi finds out, she’ll wonder why I didn’t trust her with the truth.

Why I let a lie grow roots under her feet.

I can’t do that to her.

I know what it feels like to live inside someone else’s silence. My father fed me sugar-coated lies and half-truths until I stopped recognizing my own reflection. I won’t pass that legacy on.

I just pray I have a little more time before her questions start. Before her eyes turn to mine and ask for an answer I don’t know how to give.

“I’m here to pick up Noemi Sanna,” I say, breath still shallow from the rush over.

The secretary looks up, adjusting her oversized glasses. “She was already picked up… about ten minutes ago.”

The ground shifts beneath me.

“What?” My voice cracks. “Picked up by who ?”

She blinks. “Her father.”

Everything inside me freezes.

My lungs lock. My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to break out. I stumble back, gripping the edge of the counter to stay upright.

“Her father ?” The words slice out of me, sharp and rising. “What do you mean, her father?”

My thoughts spin. Raffaele? Has he found us? Or someone else? Someone worse? One of the men who took me before? One of the ghosts I’ve spent years trying to outrun?

“How could you let her go?” My voice trembles, fury barely holding back the scream. “You’re supposed to keep her here until a registered guardian signs her out!”

“She seemed fine!” the woman stammers. “She smiled—she held his hand—I didn’t think?—”

“You didn’t think ?” The words come out in a hiss, low and dangerous. My hands are shaking now, barely able to grip my phone. Panic is devouring me whole.

Oh god. Noemi.

I lash out and grab her by the collar. “I don’t care if she was smiling and whistling a merry tune. If anything fucking happens to my daughter, I’ll?—”

“Mama,” a small voice says, cutting me off.

I still and glance over my shoulder. Noemi is standing there, wearing a face-splitting smile. She’s holding an ice cream cone in one hand and the other is in a man’s hand. I unclench my hand from the woman’s collar, finger by finger, feeling blood fill my limbs again.

“Hey, baby,” I croak, trying not to break down and sob.

She crosses over to me, arms wide open, and I go down on my knees and wrap her small body into a hug. “Uncle Marco’s back and he bought me ice cream, and he said he’s going to take me to the dog shelter tomorrow, and he’s going to get me purple rain boots so I don’t ruin my sneakers, and?—”

“Slow down,” Marco laughs, stepping forward. “Hey, Ariel.”

“Y-you didn’t tell me you were coming around.”

“Surprise,” he deadpans, and I choke out a laugh. I haven’t seen Marco in the two years since he went back to Italy, and even though we talk over the phone and do a lot of video calls, I have to admit that seeing him in the flesh is far different from seeing him on a screen.

I rise to my feet and fall into his arms, tears burning the back of my eyes. I’ve been doing pretty well on my own since he left, but I must admit that I’ve missed him. I inhale the familiar scent of that laundry detergent he likes and the cologne he uses.

When I pull away, I notice for the first time that he’s put on more muscle, and he’s let his beard grow out. It’s not just my imagination that he’s gotten more attractive. I can even see some of the other moms stealing glances at him.

“You have fans,” I tease him. “I think that lady over there in yellow is going to leave a pool of saliva behind if she doesn’t shut her jaw soon.”

“What does that mean?” my daughter asks, eyebrows pulled together.

“Yeah, Ariel,” he grins. “What does that mean?”

“Shut up,” I laugh. “I can’t believe you’re back. You didn’t tell me you were coming back. For a second, I thought…”

“Noemi is fine,” he assures me softly. “I took a two-week leave and decided to come spend it with my two favorite people.”

“I’m your favorite person,” my daughter says excitedly, grabbing his hand. “Let’s go see Doctor Si’s babies.”

“I missed you,” I tell Marco quietly as we walk out of the school building.

A soft look enters his eyes as he looks over at me. With a sigh, he grabs my other hand, putting himself between Noemi and me. She rattles on about how she got a gold star on her homework, and for a short amount of time, it feels perfect, like we’re a family.

For that short amount of time, I think it’s possible; I think we can make it work.

But then Noemi turns her blue eyes up at me—the exact shade of Raffaele’s, sharp and searching—and my breath catches.

Just like that, the illusion shatters.

No matter how much I want this—Marco, Noemi, a quiet life wrapped in laughter and routine—I can’t pretend. Not when every time I look at my daughter, I see the man I ran from… the man I still dream about.

Whatever this moment feels like, it’s a beautiful illusion. The three of us were never meant to be a family.

I can’t build something new when my heart is still buried in the ruins I left behind.

“Are you all right, Ariel?” Marco asks, his voice low, careful.

I force a smile. “Perfectly fine.”

But the lie sits heavy on my tongue—because perfect was never mine to have.