Page 7 of Broken Mafia Bride (His to Break #2)

GIULIA

The man is in my dream again.

He always comes when the night is deepest and I’m at my most vulnerable. Since that night with Marco, he’s been a phantom etched into the walls of my subconscious, stalking the edges of my mind like he belongs there.

I don’t know his name. I don’t know his face.

But my body knows his touch.

He never speaks. He doesn’t have to.

In the dream, I’m lying naked on cool sheets, my legs parted, the room cloaked in shadows. The air is thick, charged with the electric promise of release. I can feel him watching me—his breath on my neck, the heat of his gaze trailing over my body, making my skin tighten and pulse.

But he doesn’t touch me.

Not this time.

This time…it’s my fingers that glide down my belly, slick with heat and anticipation. I let out a shaky breath as my fingers slip lower, circling the aching throb between my thighs.

I moan softly, hips arching, the sound growing louder as I seek friction.

The pleasure builds, quick and sharp, my hips lifting to meet my touch, aching for more. My back arches. My other hand finds my breast, pinching a hard nipple as I writhe under him—under nothing. No one is there. Just a ghost in the dark and the overwhelming need he’s carved into me.

“Please,” I pant, thighs trembling, rubbing harder now. “Please…”

My fingers move faster, slick and eager, stroking over my clit until my thighs tremble. The tension coils deep and hot in my belly, threatening to snap.

I can almost feel him—his weight between my legs, the roughness of his voice whispering filth in my ear, urging me on, telling me how good I am, how much he misses me, how he’s never going to let me go again.

I slip a finger inside myself, gasping at the sensation, and then another, pumping slow and deep, matching the frantic rhythm of my hand on my clit. I imagine it’s his hand—his fingers, thick and rough, taking me apart.

I’m moaning now, louder, unable to stop. My back arches. My legs shake.

“I’m yours,” I whisper into the darkness. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop?—”

Riiiiing.

The sound slices through the haze like a blade.

“No,” I groan, furious, desperate, on the brink of something sharp and blinding.

The dream evaporates, leaving only heat and frustration behind. I jerk upright, gasping for air, my hand still buried under the blanket, soaked, trembling, unfinished.

Perspiration clings to my skin. My pulse is wild. My thighs are slick. My entire body is screaming for the release that was only seconds away.

Riiiiing.

I blink away the haze and fumble for the phone Marco gifted me a few weeks ago. My hand is unsteady as I pick it up, my voice still thick with sleep and leftover lust.

“Hello?”

“Ariel, where are you?” Marco asks.

I huff. “At home.” I don’t know why he still bothers to ask when the answer is always the same. He worries about me being cooped up in the house all day, but I honestly don’t want to be anywhere else.

I’m still wary of being out in the town without him, even though the entirety of the town is basically two major streets and a tiny bar that’s the hive of all activity here.

“I should have guessed.” There’s a smile in his voice that has me smiling back.

I was afraid that after I cut off our couch session abruptly that night, he’d become mean or grouchy to me, but the next morning, he had served me toast and tea like nothing had happened. We haven’t discussed that night, and I’m kind of relieved about it.

“The state investigator just called a few minutes ago. He said he might have some info for us.”

My heart leaps in my chest at the news, hand tightening around the phone. “Really?”

“Look, I don’t want you to get your hopes up too much about this, but I have a good feeling about today,” he says. “Do you think you can come out on your own? Let’s meet at Dusty’s bar. Sienna and I are on our way there now. We can go to the station together.”

“Uh, sure.”

“If that’s not okay with you, I can just come to the house and?—”

“No,” I cut in. “I don’t want you coming all the way here. I’ll meet you at the bar, it’s fine. Just give me a minute to get dressed.”

“Take your time.”

I hang up and climb out of bed slowly. My ankles are a bit swollen today, but at least the nausea is long gone. I splash water on my face, brush my teeth, and tie my hair into a messy bun.

Last, I slip on my comfortable flannel shirt that used to belong to Marco and head out.

I mostly steal his shirts now, because the ones he bought for me when I first arrived barely fit anymore.

The weather is nice outside, and a small smile blooms on my face at the sight of the clear blue skies.

Sienna keeps making me promise to start getting my steps in because being active will be good for the baby, but so far, I’ve been a couch potato.

I’m now familiar with the path leading through the forest around Marco’s house, and in no time at all, I’m stepping away from forest floor into graveled road.

“Boss, there’s a town ahead,” I hear a man say.

I freeze in my tracks as I spot two men in dark suits standing in the clearing ahead. My gaze falls to the gun held in one of the man’s hands.

Oh god.

I crouch awkwardly behind a row of shrubbery, my swollen belly rendering me clumsy and slow. A terrified gasp rips from my throat, and I clap a hand over my mouth to silence it.

At the sound of leaves crunching in the opposite direction, I turn my head to see another large, armed man stomping forward. This one has a scar dissecting his face, from his hairline on one side to the opposite side of his jaw. The man looks every inch a killer.

“No sign of her,” the scarred one says.

My heart clenches painfully in my chest as a terrifying thought strikes me. Could these men be after me? The possibility sends a shiver of dread through my core, and I have no intention of sticking around to find out.

Without a second thought, I move quickly but carefully, cradling my belly with one arm.

My breaths come shallow and ragged. I keep my eyes fixed ahead until, finally, I spot the faint outline of a building through the trees.

Relief surges through me when I realize it’s the chapel.

I scan the clearing to be sure no one has seen me, then hurry across the gravel and slip through a side door.

No one seems to be about, as it’s a weekday afternoon and not many people live nearby anyway. Still, I can’t shake the fear of those men barging in, searching for whoever this “her” is they were hunting. I won’t risk it.

The air inside is cool, heavy with incense and whispered prayers.

I scan the room, desperate for the nearest, most inconspicuous spot where my swollen belly and I can hide without squatting or lying flat. Then I see it: the confessional booth tucked in the far corner near the altar. Hope flares in my chest as I race through the priest’s entrance.

I’m flooded with relief when I find it unlocked. I slump onto the seat, my body trembling with exhaustion, and try to catch my breath. My hand instinctively rubs over my bump when I feel it kick. God, I need to pee so badly, but there’s no time for that now.

The chapel door creaks open, and heavy boots echo across the old stone floor. I suck in a breath and squeeze tighter into the corner of the booth, as if the wood will swallow me whole.

Then—he stops. Right outside my door.

The only thing keeping us apart is the thin wall of the booth.

I freeze, the world reduced to heartbeats and breath. One heartbeat. Two. Three…

I squeeze my eyes shut, heart pounding as I wait for the man to find me.

My eyes fly open in shock when I hear the door of the confessional open, and the man enters the stall on the other side.

“Father…” he says, but his voice isn’t steady. It’s cracked and raw, like something vital has been shattered in him.

“Forgive me. I have done terrible things since I lost her . I can’t stop. I keep killing.”

My heart slams so hard it feels like it might crack a rib. The confession slices down my spine like a blade.

For a moment, my mind blanks completely. I’m frozen—too terrified to breathe, too transfixed to look away from the thin screen of wood separating us.

My skin prickles with cold sweat. My stomach heaves, bile rising at the back of my throat. But underneath the horror, there’s something worse: a strange, shivering recognition.

His voice.

God help me, there’s something in it that tugs at something buried deep inside me. A low rasp I almost— almost —remember.

I swallow, trying to steady my breathing. I need to run. Every cell in my body is screaming to get up and flee. But I can’t. My legs are locked. My palms are slick where they clutch my belly, as if I can shield the baby from the monstrous truth seeping through that lattice.

I hear the man suck in a shaky breath. “I have done terrible things since I lost her.”

Lost who? Curiosity keeps me pinned in place, and I try to even out my breaths, staying as still as humanly possible. There’s something about the voice, something I can’t put my finger on.

There’s no way I can let myself be discovered now. The man will never let me live after I’ve heard about the evil things he’s done.

“I told myself it was for her,” he continues. “To avenge her, to quiet the rage inside me. But the rage never fades. The pain never lessens. Nothing can numb the hell I carry.”

Something cleaves straight through my heart at the raw anguish in his voice.

I blink, stunned by the depth of my sympathy for a man who has just admitted to being a mass murderer.

I should be repulsed, appalled—anything but seized by this fierce, inexplicable need to reach across the booth, to wrap my hands around his and offer him the solace he so achingly craves.

What is wrong with me? It must be some hormonal confusion or something like that.