Page 80 of Broken Mafia Bride

She blinks, unbothered. “How could I what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Isa. That blank stare doesn’t work anymore.” My voice drops, rough with anger. “You should have come to me first. You didn’t have to put her through this right now.”

Her brow arches, just slightly. “Really?” she says, almost thoughtful. “And how long was I supposed to wait, Raffaele? How long was I supposed to pretend this didn’t exist?” She shrugs, one shoulder rising with practiced indifference. “Was I supposed to show up a few months from now with a baby andsay, ‘Oh, hey, by the way, this is Raffaele’s?’ Come on. She was going to find out, no matter what.”

“I could’ve found a better way to tell her.” I enunciate the words like they’re solid enough to make this better. “Do you even realize what you’ve just done to her? For god’s sake, you’re her cousin—her best friend. You should know better.”

“No,” she says sharply, stepping closer now, but still in control. “What I did was finally tell the fucking truth.”

She presses a single finger into the center of my chest—not hard, but deliberate. “Something that’s been in short supply between all three of us.”

My jaw clenches. “You could have told her when the time was right.”

She lets out a laugh, low and tired. “And when exactly was that? After you convinced Giulia to forget everything and run away with you again? Was I supposed to just stay quiet and watch you rewrite your little fairy tale?” Her eyes flash. “Did you think I’d let you pretend I never existed? Pretend this—whatever it is—didn’t happen?”

“What are you talking about?” I ask carefully, trying to gauge what she’s seen… or what she thinks she’s seen.

She lets out a short, humorless breath.

“Don’t do that.” Her voice wavers between restraint and something sharper. “Don’t act like you don’t know. I saw you two. In the garden.”

Her arms cross tightly over her chest. “I saw the way you looked at her. The way you leaned in like she was some delicate, sacred thing you didn’t want to break. Like she was the only person in the world who mattered.”

I flinch. A little too visibly.

“So what?” I say, trying to stay calm. “You’ve always known how I felt about her. I spent four years tearing myself apartlooking for her. What did you think was going to happen when I finally found her? That I’d just stop feeling it? That I’d forget?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Her jaw tightens.

“She lied to you,” she says quietly.

“She didn’t lie to me.”

“She kept things from you. And you know it.” Her voice rises slightly, but not out of rage—out of something closer to desperation.

“She stayed away, Raffaele. She didn’t come back. She didn’t want to come back. You can tell yourself whatever you need to, but if she’d wanted you—really wanted you—she would’ve moved mountains to find you. That’s who Giulia is. You know that better than anyone.”

I open my mouth—but I don’t have anything to say.

Because something sharp and sick settles in my stomach, knowing Isa might be right.

Ever since Matteo told me where she was, ever since she looked at me with that mix of warmth and distance, ever since she didn’t rush into my arms—I’ve felt it. A quiet, creeping doubt.

A sense that maybe… I’m chasing something that doesn’t want to be caught.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say quietly. “You have no idea what it’s been like for her. She lost her memory and?—”

“I know, Raffaele,” she interrupts, no snort, no mockery—just calm certainty. “I know everything. I’ve known for a while.”

I stare at her, heart pounding.

“You know what she’s going through right now,” I say, voice tightening. “You know she’s barely holding it together trying to find our daughter—and you still thought telling her like this was a good idea?”

Her eyes narrow slightly, but her tone remains composed. “I didn’t do it to hurt her. And I didn’t do it to hurt you. I did it because this isn’t just about you and Giulia anymore.”

She takes a breath. “I’m not the villain in this story. I’m just someone trying to live with the consequences too.”

She looks at me then—not with anger, but with something steadier. Something tired.