Page 21 of Broken Mafia Bride (His to Break #2)

With a heavy, frustrated breath, I climb up after her.

The twelve-hour flight to Sardegna is one of the longest, most excruciating stretches of silence and suppressed rage I’ve ever endured. My thoughts spin like knives—Giulia’s face, the photo, the man, the child.

A child.

There’s no version of that detail that makes sense in my head. No angle that doesn’t hurt.

I’m trying to keep myself from spiraling, and across from me, Isabella’s voice cuts gently into the silence.

She doesn’t fill the air with noise. She speaks quietly, measured, as if she knows I’m somewhere else entirely. She tells me about her childhood summers in Sardegna, about the olive trees that lined her grandfather’s land, about how the air always smelled of salt and lemons.

She doesn’t bring up weddings or futures. Not this time. Just memories—calm, distant, carefully chosen.

Maybe she knows pushing harder will only drive me further away. Maybe she’s given up trying to win me over entirely. Or maybe she’s finally seeing the ghost that’s been haunting me since long before she ever came into the picture.

I don’t answer. I can’t. Not without letting the storm inside me spill out in ways I’ll regret.

By the time the wheels touch down at the small airport in Sardegna, I feel like I’ve been flayed open. The pressure in my chest is unbearable, like my ribs are straining to keep my heart from collapsing in on itself.

The car Matteo arranged is already waiting. The driver, an older man with sun-dark skin and a salt-and-pepper beard, stands beside it with a relaxed air like he’s got nowhere else in the world to be.

I hand him the folded paper with the coordinates.

“There,” I say, and it’s all I can manage. My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else.

“ Si. Dov’è questo ,” the driver nods. “It’s Fisher’s Cove. Quiet place. Fishermen, mostly. I have a friend there who could drink a bottle of grappa and still walk straighter than a priest. è incredibile .”

I turn to Isabella. “You’ll be fine finding your way to Casa Bella.”

She corrects me gently, arms folded but without heat. “It’s Casa Bianca. And yes, I know the way.”

There’s a pause. She looks at me—not angry, not needy, just steady. “Are you really going to disappear without a word? We just flew halfway across the world together.”

“This can’t wait,” I say, already moving toward the backseat. “Tommaso will take care of you.”

She glances at Tommaso, then back at me. Her jaw works for a second like she’s deciding whether to speak. In the end, she doesn’t fight. She doesn’t plead.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she says instead, voice quiet but even. “Whatever it is.”

There’s no sarcasm in it. No edge. Just something unreadable in her eyes—something that almost feels like understanding.

I don’t answer. I can’t. The words feel too brittle in my mouth. I close the door and, with a curt nod to the driver, mutter, “ Andiamo .”

The driver rattles on and on about the fishermen, and the gossip on the island throughout the drive, switching from broken English to flawless Italian.

Even with the AC in the car, beads of sweat trail down my back.

My hands won’t stop shaking. I wipe my palms on my pants again and again, like it’ll calm the storm inside me.

After four years of searching for her, of standing at the edge of insanity, she’s right at my fingertips, so close that it feels like my heart is being mended piece by piece.

The car has barely pulled to a halt before I’m leaping off it and racing into the small house tucked between a line of trees. “Giulia! Giulia!”

I kick the door open and barge in, gaze flying around the house. It’s cold in a way that tells me no one is around, but I still go from room to room, searching for her.

My frantic search comes to a halt when I catch sight of a photo on the mantle. My hands tremble as I reach for the frame.

Giulia’s hair is much longer in the picture, and she’s wearing a smile that nearly splits her face. She looks radiant. Beside her are two people I don’t recognize.

One is a man with light brown hair, and in his arms is a brown-haired girl smiling down at Giulia.

The picture screams happy family. I trace my thumb over Giulia’s smiling face in the picture, bitterness filling my lungs and choking me. I refused to believe Matteo earlier, but the evidence is looking me right in the eyes now.

She looks happy. Happier than I’ve ever seen her. It’s not just the smile—it’s the light in her eyes, like she’s finally at peace. The kind of peace I spent years chasing, thinking I’d only find it with her. And now… she’s already found it. Without me.

My heart cracks and splinters in my chest, and the violence that’s barely banked inside me rises to the surface, but this time there’s no controlling it. It explodes out of me like a tornado, and I fling the frame against the wall. It shatters into a hundred pieces, but I’m still not satisfied.

I go through the room in a frenzy, tossing and ripping things apart, and yet the satisfaction never comes, the hole that has existed in my heart for years growing larger like a dark hole, sucking away every last bit of hope I have.

The hurt that has long since become numb comes back with a vengeance, threatening to bring me to my knees.

“What the hell!” a man bites out, yanking me back before I can reach a potted plant against the windowsill.

I don’t think; I spin around, fists flying. I connect with his face, and the man staggers back. It takes me a second to recognize him through my daze of fury, and when I do, the fury reaches a crescendo.

“You! You took her from me!” I go for him again.

Marco is ready for me this time around, though; he dodges my fist, his own smashing into the side of my stomach. I grit my teeth at the pain and sweep out with my leg, taking him down. He crashes, taking down the TV set with him.

I rush after him, but he rolls away from my kick, leaping deftly to his feet with a punch of his own.

I jump away, taking him in for a second.

He’s well-built, and I already know he’s a fisherman, and it’s a job that requires strength and stamina.

We’re evenly matched, and it brings a smile to my face.

It’s been a long time since I had a good fight, and I’m itching to draw blood.

He turns his head and spits out blood. “You shouldn’t have bothered coming here.”

“You know who I am?” I ask with some surprise.

“Raffaele Gagliardi.” His smile is a mockery. “Ariel’s told me all about you. I was hoping you’d stay in her past where you belong, but here you fucking are.”

Ariel? The nickname aggravates even more, and he must know that if the way his eyes light up as I rush forward is any indication.

My fists come down to his face, and he blocks the blow, but I keep on hitting until his hands give way and his nose breaks under my fist. His knee digs into my stomach, throwing me off, and he catches me under the jaw with a right hook.

“Where is she?”

“None of your business.” He laughs in my face, teeth bloody, and I hit him again.

“Where the fuck is she?!”

“Somewhere she doesn’t want to be bothered by you. Leave her alone, man,” he snarls. “If she wanted to be with you, she’d be with you. Take a fucking hint.” He swings his head back and brings it down on mine.

I stumble back, head spinning, and he takes the opportunity to push me against the wall, elbow pressed against my jugular.

“Get lost, Gagliardi,” he hisses. “Where the hell were you when she almost died from a gunshot? When she nearly drowned at sea? Nowhere, that’s what.

I fucking saved her. And despite everything, whatever shit you did to her that put her in that mess, you think you can barge into my house, fuck up my shit, and demand her like she’s yours? You’re delusional.”

His words hit harder than his head did. Saved her. He saved her. My gut twists, bile rising, because he’s right. I wasn’t there. I failed her. My hands scrabble at his arm, but then I snap. I rip the gun from my waistband and jam it under his jaw, the cold steel biting into his skin.

“I’ll ask you one more time. Where the fuck is she?”

“Do it,” he taunts. “Kill me. You’ll never find her. And even if you do, what then? You think she’ll run to you with my blood on your hands? Shoot me, asshole. Go ahead.”

My finger tightens on the trigger. I could do it.

I should do it. He’s the wall between me and her, the smug bastard who stole her when I lost her.

One shot, and it’s over. But something stops me.

Some weak, stupid thread of doubt. My hand shakes, and then I let it go.

The gun slips from my fingers, and I allow it to clatter to the ground.

“I need her,” I rasp, the words ripping out of me like they’re carved from my chest.

It’s the most truth I’ve allowed myself to admit since she left. “I need her. Do you hear me? This isn’t a fucking game or an ego trip for me.”

He blinks, caught off guard, that mocking fury slipping for a second. But then it’s back. “So you can ruin her life all over again?”

A bitter laugh escapes my mouth. “You’ve got it all wrong.

If anyone’s life is ruined, it’s mine. I’ve been stuck in limbo for years, chasing a shadow, while she’s clearly moved on.

Doing fine without me. And the worst part?

” My voice drops, thick with self-hatred.

“If I had the chance, I’d let her ruin me all over again. ”

Silence hangs between us, heavy. He stares at me, like he’s trying to figure out if I’ve lost my mind. Then he steps back, easing off my throat, but his eyes stay hard, wary.

“Do you love her?” The question slips out before I can stop it, and my chest caves in, waiting for the blow his answer might deal.

“More than anything,” he says, instant and fierce, like it’s a vow. He lets me go fully, stepping away, still watching me like I’m a rabid dog.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t tell me where she is, either,” I tell him with a shrug. “I’ll find her either way. I’ve searched for her for four years with no meaningful leads. Do you think I’ll quit now when I’m so close?”

“Ariel doesn’t want anything to do with you.”

“I’ll let her say that to my face herself,” I tell him.

He wipes his bloody mouth with the back of his palm, and a serious look settles on his face. “I don’t like you, asshole, and you better believe you’ll be paying for all the damages here.”

I watch him as he moves over to the corner and picks up the picture frame, handling it like it’s the most important thing in the entire room. He sets it back on the mantle, staring at it—her, I know it’s her—for a long moment.

Without looking at me, he says, “You talk like she’s yours. But maybe that’s the problem—she never was.”

I tremble with fury, but his next words strike me directly in the chest.

“She’s with Re Ombra. Now get the fuck out of my house.”