Page 20 of Broken Mafia Bride (His to Break #2)

RAFFAELE

“ H ow about that new Thai restaurant? Everyone keeps talking about it, and I hear their food is amazing,” Isabella says excitedly over the phone. “I can get us reservations for tonight—or we could just stay in and order something if you’d prefer.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to keep my irritation at bay. “Isa… don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Try to pretend like this is something it’s not.”

“It’s just dinner,” she says sharply. “Don’t be an asshole.”

“I’ve got things to take care of tonight.”

“If those things include drinking yourself into another blackout, don’t bother. I stopped by earlier and poured everything down the drain.”

My jaw tightens. “You what?”

I yank the phone away and groan, dragging a hand down my face, frustration and shame mixing into a toxic knot in my chest. Of all the reckless, stupid things I’ve done since Giulia disappeared over that goddamn cliff, that night with Isabella still festers like a wound that refuses to heal.

I was drunk. Broken. Grieving. I was wasted, vulnerable, and missing Giulia more than ever. She was too. We were both trying to fill the silence with something—anything.

It’s no excuse. I don’t try to make one. I’ve carried it, every ugly second of it, and it’s the only reason I haven’t told her to leave for good. Guilt is a leash I haven’t found the strength to cut.

But maybe that’s not the only reason anymore.

Maybe there’s a part of me that finally sees what everyone else sees—that peace is hanging by a thread, and Isabella and I might be that thread.

Maybe I agreed to this engagement not because I believe in it, but because I no longer know what else to do.

Because the war is bleeding everyone dry, and I’m tired of losing.

Still, no matter how much I try to play the part, my heart isn’t in it. Not really. Because even now—especially now—every part of me is still looking for Giulia.

“Can you just stop?” I grit out, trying to rein in the frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Stop tossing out dinner plans like we’re something we’re not. And leave my damn drinks alone.”

Her voice flares with disbelief. “Are you really trying to dismiss me like one of your booty calls?”

“Isa—”

She cuts in, softer now, the way she always does when she’s trying to shift the conversation into something more intimate.

“It’s just two people having dinner. That’s all I’m suggesting.

We have so much in common, Raffaele. You’re the only one who really sees me—and I like to think I see you too.

We understand each other. We’ve been through hell together. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

I don’t answer, jaw tight, waiting for the ache in my chest to dull.

She doesn’t wait. “I just think maybe we should talk about that night.”

It’s not that I can’t talk about it—I just don’t want to. We’ve hovered around this topic before, always circling, never landing. It’s the same pattern: she opens the door, hoping I’ll walk through it. And I close it without a word.

“I’m not trying to pressure you,” she continues gently. “I know you were in a dark place. I know that night wasn’t what it could have been. But pretending it didn’t happen won’t make it disappear.”

She’s not wrong. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to offer her more than I already have.

To the rest of the world, our engagement makes sense. Two powerful families, one strategic solution. Everyone sees it as a peace treaty disguised as a wedding announcement. Clean. Convenient. Controlled.

But behind closed doors, we are nothing that neat.

Lately, Isabella’s been slipping from compliance into hope. From silence into suggestion. She’s starting to speak like a woman building something—planning a future I never promised.

And I don’t even have the strength to keep pushing back.

The guilt is its own prison. I let that night happen. I let the silence stretch. I agreed to an engagement that, by all accounts, should be logical—but logic doesn’t make my chest loosen when she calls. It doesn’t stop me from waking up hoping the next message on my phone is from someone else.

A knock pulls me from the fog, and Matteo steps in, sharp-eyed, already reading the room.

“I’ve got something for you,” he says.

“Isa, I have to go,” I mutter, cutting her off just as she starts to say something about picking her up later.

I don’t wait for her reply. I end the call, my thumb lingering on the screen for a moment too long.

Matteo raises an eyebrow. “She still hoping this engagement turns into something more?”

“You have no idea,” I mutter, rubbing my temples. “What do you have for me?”

He hesitates—just for a second. “I think I know where she is,” Matteo says quietly.

My heart slams so hard against my ribs it feels like a warning shot.

“Who?” I ask, but I already know. God, I already fucking know. I just don’t let myself believe it.

He meets my eyes, and it’s all there—certainty, tension, something guarded.

“Giulia Montanari,” he says. “I think I’ve found her.”

The words hit like a punch to the sternum. I’m on my feet before I know I’ve moved, every nerve ending in my body lighting up like a flare.

“Where?” My voice comes out ragged, almost desperate. Tell me everything, now.”

“Two days ago, I saw someone who looks like her while going through airport footage to monitor one of the men transporting our drugs,” he informs me. “I tried to follow her digital footprints, but there were almost none. I hit bingo when I looked into the man she was with instead.”

I go still. “Who’s the man?”

He winces. “You’re not going to like this, Raffaele.”

Something is withering in my chest, and my nails are digging into my palms. “Spit it out.”

My best friend sighs and drags a hand through his hair, looking uncomfortable all of a sudden. “There’s a small fishing village where the two have been living this whole time,” he pauses. “With a kid.”

Everything inside me shuts down at his last word.

A kid?

“What do you mean by a kid?” I ask slowly. I just want him to tell me that he’s mistaken, that none of it is true. There’s no way that Giulia actually ran off to have a life that doesn’t include me while I’ve spent the past four years searching for her relentlessly.

“I’m sorry, Raffaele.” He slides a piece of paper across the table. “This is one of those things that I think you just have to see for yourself.”

On the paper is a location and coordinates. “She’s in Sardegna?” I ask, surprised, refusing to even acknowledge the part about Giulia having a whole new family.

Matteo has never given me false information before—but there’s a first time for everything.

And what if it’s true? a voice asks in my head. What if she saw her opportunity to leave this fucked-up world, and she grabbed it with both hands?

Matteo points to the coordinates on the paper. “That’s the man’s house in Sardegna. I don’t have enough sources out there to keep a close eye on things—but that’s definitely Marco’s place.”

“Marco,” I taste the name on my tongue, unsurprised when it comes out tasting sour. I hate the bastard already.

“How soon can you get me to Sardegna?” I ask him.

“I can get you on a small private plane going to the island in an hour’s time,” he informs me. “But if you have to sort things out here, then there’ll be another plane in two days’ time and?—

“I’ll take the one leaving in an hour.”

“Are you going to tell your father where you’re going?” He raises an eyebrow.

“It’s none of his business.”

“And Isabella?”

I give him a look, my voice coming out more defensive than normal. “What about her?”

He raises his palms in surrender. “Nothing.”

I don’t press. I already know what he’s thinking, even if he doesn’t say it out loud.

And the worst part is—he’s probably right.

Because not even an hour later, I step into the airport terminal, and there she is: Isabella.

Of course she’s here. She’s been showing up everywhere lately, like a shadow with lipstick.

Sunglasses perched on her head, a suitcase at her side, like this is some kind of fucking vacation.

Somehow, someone keeps leaking my location, and I’ve got a damn good guess who she’s charmed into obedience.

One of my men is talking, and she’s listening.

She’s a gorgeous woman, with this charm about her that makes you want to go along with whatever she wants.

Unfortunately, her charm is totally wasted on me. There’s only one woman who can bring me to my knees every single time, and I’m on my way to find her now.

“What are you doing here?” I ask when I get close.

“I heard you were heading out of town,” she says as I approach, her voice calm, unreadable. “Figured I could use a change of scenery myself. Chicago’s been… heavy lately.”

“This is business, not a vacation,” I reply flatly.

She gives a small nod, unbothered. “I know. But Sardegna isn’t just anywhere—it’s home. My grandfather’s there. I haven’t seen him in years.” A pause. “I thought maybe… it was time.”

“It’s not safe.”

She meets my gaze evenly. “Chicago isn’t exactly safe, either. Besides, you’re not the only one with reasons to go back. I want to see him.” Her voice doesn’t waver, but it’s clear she’s not here to argue—she’s already decided.

My jaw tightens. “What do you think you’re doing? If you want a vacation, book a flight to France or something. I’m done with this shadow game.”

Her eyes flick, just slightly. Not anger—hurt, maybe. But she reins it in fast. “I’m not following you, Raffaele. I’m choosing to be where I need to be. Whether you like it or not.” She brushes past me, climbing the steps to the plane.

At the top, she pauses and looks back over her shoulder. “You coming? Or are you planning to stand there questioning my intentions while your business slips away?”

There’s something sharper under the calm now—something I can’t quite name. When I glance at Tommaso, he shrugs, no clue either.

And that’s when it hits me: Why the hell am I hiding the real reason I’m going?