Page 54 of Broken Mafia Bride

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?

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.”