Page 73 of Broken Mafia Bride

Shooting them identical looks of distaste, I rise to my feet. “And when you do, you’ll lose Giulia too.”

“You think I’ll stand by and let you take her from me?” Enrico roars, rising as well. “I’m her father and?—”

“The number of times she’s cried because of you should make you ashamed to call yourself that,” I cut in before he can launch into more self-serving nonsense. I flick imaginary lint off the shoulder of my silk shirt. “I don’t care what either of you chooses to do, but the next person who makes her cry will answer to me.”

If I stay in this room any longer, I’m going to lose it—and someone’s going to end up on the floor. Maybe both. As I head for the door, I pause and glance back over my shoulder.

They’re too busy glaring at each other to notice much else. Unlike Giulia, I have no illusions left when it comes to either of them. I’ll begin the search for our daughter on my own.

“And by the way,” I add, “years from now, I’m doing everything in my power not to end up like you—two broken men, still haunted by the woman you both loved and lost.”

I watch the words land. Enrico’s shoulders fold inward, as if the weight of them hits bone. Re Ombra’s face pales.

Lucio doesn’t speak at first. Just stares. Cold. Impenetrable.

Then his voice cuts clean through the room.

“You think you’re the only one who’s bled for her?”

I glance back. His eyes are as sharp as flint.

“Walk out now, Raffaele. But if you ever fail Isabella or Giulia again—don’t come back.”

I step out of the suffocating weight of the study, and somehow, I already know where she went. The air is cooler out here, but the fury still clings to me. My knuckles itch. My jaw throbs from clenching.

I exhale—once, twice.

Then I follow the only pull I’ve ever trusted—straight to her.

The younger me would’ve scoffed at the idea of some magnetic force between people. I never believed in kismet, soulmates, or any of that sentimental crap. But now, I find myself drawn to the back garden like her soul is calling to mine.

She’s rocking gently on a swing tied to a tree. The wind tugs at her brown hair, whipping it across her face, and every so often, she brushes it aside with a distracted hand.

Casa Bianca is the kind of place I always imagined Giulia and I would grow old in. It’s beautiful—wide open land, sweeping views of the island and the sea. The house itself has a rustic charm.

Everything inside is old, but solid. The kind of place that’s weathered storms and time, and still stands strong. It makes you feel safe, like it’s been pulled from the pages of a storybook.

But there’s a quiet sadness woven into its walls. Like it’s witnessed too much—held too much—and stayed standing through every ache and loss, whether it wanted to or not.

I step forward silently, swallowing the knot in my throat. Carefully, I gather her hair in my hands and begin to braid it into a thick, single plait. It’s been years since my mother died—but somehow, my hands remember.

Giulia goes still as I finish.

“Can I sit with you?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Y-yes.”

I settle on the swing chair beside her. We sit pressed together, facing opposite directions. She turns her head slightly to look at me, her eyes red and watery. I pull a handkerchief from my pocket and hand it to her without a word.

“I’m sorry,” I say as she dabs her eyes.

“About what?”

“About them,” I tell her softly. “About Noemi. About losing your memory. About all of it.”

She lowers her head. “None of that was your fault.”

“Maybe not,” I say, meeting her eyes. “But I should’ve been there. And for that, I am sorry.”