Page 44 of Broken Mafia Bride

Marco swears and kicks at the gravel, the veins in his neck standing out as he spins in circles like he doesn’t know where to direct his rage.

“Fuck! Fuck! How did I miss this? How did we miss this?”

“I should’ve known. I should’ve known this peace wasn’t real. I should’ve never let my guard down, not for a second.” My body trembles, my brain unraveling.

Marco crouches next to me, hands hovering like he wants to comfort me but doesn’t know how to even start.

“I thought we were safe,” I whisper. “I really believed we could live quietly. That maybe… maybe this darkness wouldn’t find us again.”

My thoughts spiral—fast, sharp, and merciless.

“Ariel, look,” Marco says suddenly.

He points to a corner cluttered with empty pizza boxes and crumpled paper bags. “This is where she must’ve been staying.”

Among the trash, I spot a camp bag. My heart lurches as I grab it and dump its contents onto the floor.

Clothes. A length of rope that makes bile rise in my throat. Photographs—one of my daughter in the school hallway, another of the two of us leaving the Amato house.

This sick woman has been stalking us for god knows how long.

“Holy shit,” Marco mutters, crouching to pick something up. He holds it out to me?—

A coin, old and worn, with an arrow etched on each side. One points north. The other, south.

“What is this?” I murmur, turning the coin in my hand, studying the strange markings.

Marco’s expression darkens. “It belongs to La Rete Rossi. The Red Network. They’re the most dangerous trafficking ring in all of Sardegna. Even the authorities pretend not to see them.”

A chill creeps down my spine. “Why would they come after Noemi?”

“They must’ve figured out who you really are. If you’re someone important enough…” His voice dips. “Then she’s not just a little girl. She’s leverage. A high-value piece they can sell—or use.”

My stomach turns. I haven’t told Marco the truth about who I really am, but it’s clear now—I may not have a choice. Still… none of this adds up.

Why would they care if she’s Raffaele’s daughter?

Why would a trafficking ring from Sardegna even?—

And then my thoughts slam to a halt.

Oh god.

Maybe this has nothing to do with Raffaele at all.

A chill slices through me—cold and absolute. My mind whirs, pulling pieces together, faster than I can stop them. The name I’ve been using…Sanna.

Lucio Sanna.

My grandfather.

He lives in Sardegna. I’ve worn his name like a cloak, like some kind of shield. But what if someone traced it? What if it wasn’t just a disguise—but a trail?

A breadcrumb I didn’t realize I was leaving.

My heart thunders in my ears.

What’s that stupid nickname Isabella always used? The one they whisper in Sardegna?