Page 28 of Broken Mafia Bride

Or maybe all of this is just an excuse because I’m too much of a coward to get my heart broken when I find out he’s moved on.

“Doctor Si will be at dinner,” Marco assures her. “And guess what?”

“What?” she asks excitedly, big blue eyes so like her father’s trained on the other man.

“I’ll let you have two glasses of juice if you eat all your food.”

She hesitates, glancing over at me for confirmation, and I shoot Marco a look before nodding. “Yup, it’s a deal.”

“Okay.” She nods.

After we drop her off at the daycare, Marco and I continue on our way. Eventually, we get to the junction where we split ways, him to the lake and me to the small-town store where I work as a cashier.

Olive, who works the night shift, is already waiting at the door when I arrive. She’s smacking on another layer of dark lipstick, her usual impatient ritual. She checks her watch, shrugs, and saunters out, even though she still has fifteen minutes left on her shift.

“Hey, Ariel,” an older woman with dyed red hair calls as she steps inside, her voice brimming with the promise of gossip. “Did you hear about the fire at the high school?”

I offer her a fond smile, steeling myself for an hour of small-town tales. Her visit here almost every day is a welcome distraction from the storm that still churns inside me. Even though I know my real name now, and the missing pieces of my past have returned, I still tell everyone to call me Ariel. It keeps me safe, first off. And I still don’t fully get what happened to me that day—it’s a big, messy question I can’t answer.

One thing I’ve come to understand is this: Some questions don’t need answers. Not because they aren’t important, but because chasing them will only tear open wounds I’ve barely managed to scar over. This quiet life, this small world I’ve built—it’s not what I imagined for myself, but it’s peace. And my daughter, Noemi, is the center of it. The reason I keep moving forward.

Still, some days, I miss Raffaele so much it feels like I’m drowning in air. Like my lungs forget how to work because he isn’t here. I miss Isabella too—her sharp tongue, her fierce love. There were nights I laid awake wondering if she was safe. But a quick, desperate search online told me she’s okay. That she’s still standing. The person who took me only ever wanted me. Not her. That should bring me comfort.

But it doesn’t. Not really.

And of course, I miss my father. He was tough and mean sometimes, but he’s still my papa. Every day, I wonder how he’s doing, if he thinks about me or cares at all. It hurts to think about him.

But it’s been two years since everything shattered. And somewhere between the moment my memories came rushing back and the first time I held Noemi in my arms, gasping with love and fear, I made a choice. A quiet, aching, necessary choice. This life—calm, steady, without shadows lurking at every turn—is what my daughter deserves.

I won’t drag her back into that world of blood and vengeance just to chase a man who might not be waiting, or a father whose mistakes nearly cost me everything. I’ve had nights—hundreds of them—where I played out every version of going back. But in the end, I always come back to one moment: her eyes blinking up at me for the first time, her tiny fingers wrapping around mine. That’s when I knew. This was the only path. The right one.

And I’ve held to it. No matter how much it’s broken my heart.

“No, I didn’t. What happened?” I ask, eyes wide, snapping out of my thoughts.

I’ve gotten to know a lot of people in this town. Some are even my friends now, which feels good after all I’ve been through.

She shakes her head, mouth pulled down into a frown. “You won’t believe it. It all started from a fight in the cafeteria.”

“What’swith the regular fires at the high school anyway?” Mrs. Amato asks, dishing out food on Marco’s plate.

Her husband catches my eye and shakes his head, and I bite back my smile. Sienna’s mother’s love language is feeding people. And no matter how many times I try to convince her to just sit down and enjoy a nice dinner, she still insists on showing up hours earlier and taking over the cooking.

“No idea,” I say. “But it was all I heard about today. I’ve heard so many variations of the story that I’m starting to think nobody survived it at all.”

Paolo, Sienna’s younger brother, rolls his eyes. “Someone set a book on fire in the courtyard. Big fu?—”

“Paolo!” his mother cries, turning her wide eyes to my daughter, seated in her highchair, sipping from her plastic sippy cup.

“Big effing deal,” he immediately corrects. “Sorry.”

“You’re going to make Ariel regret raising her kid around you lot,” Mrs. Amato sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Hey, what did I do? I’ve been an exemplary figure,” Marco argues, turning to me. “Haven’t I?”

“The absolute best.” I wink at him.

Noemi giggles from her highchair, then throws her arms in the air. “Best!” she echoes, beaming.