Page 13 of Broken Mafia Prince (His to Break #1)

GIULIA

There’s something honestly intimate about firing a gun. The focus it demands, the weight of it in your hand, anchoring you, the jolt of the recoil when you fire. It all feels raw and personal, like a ritual you can’t fully explain but understand in your bones.

I watch with quiet satisfaction as the bullet pierces the tin can hanging from a tree branch. Bull’s-eye.

The first time I held a gun, I was a nervous wreck, imagining every possible way things could go wrong.

For some reason, the thought of shooting myself in the foot terrified me the most. But all that fear had been buried under elation when my father had looked over from where he’d been talking to one of his associates— a made man in our circle — and gave me a nod.

“Nice shot, kid.” Those words had stuck with me, replaying in my head all day and echoing in my dreams that night.

The very next morning, I’d laced up my boots and followed him to the gun range, eager for more.

After years of being invisible to him, I was desperate for even the smallest scrap of his attention.

Shooting practice had seemed like the perfect way to bridge the gap between us.

I’d tried to act casual, to stay cool and not mess it up, like it didn’t matter that much, but deep down, it meant everything.

Despite my best efforts, though, it wasn’t enough to fix the distance between us.

When he missed our practice sessions for the first time, I made excuses for him. By the third time, I stopped pretending. I had failed again. We slipped right back into living like passing ships, like strangers sharing a roof, and it had hurt.

But pain has a way of turning into anger. That anger fueled what started as a hobby and became an obsession—my way of quieting the chaos in my head.

I move to the worn wooden table, swapping the Glock for a rifle. My hands work quickly, loading the weapon, checking its condition, and settling back into position.

As I raise the rifle and line up the target, I close one eye and let my breathing slow. The world falls away. I can almost hear the steady rhythm of my heartbeat. I wait a moment, allowing my breath to even out.

Exhale. Focus. Press the trigger.

“If you put this much effort into talking to boys, you wouldn’t be spending Valentine’s Day alone again,” a teasing voice interrupts from behind me.

It’s enough to throw off my concentration, and the bullet arches wide, missing the second tin can. A mixture of anger, annoyance, and frustration races through me as I toss the rifle down and spin around.

Isabella, my cousin, is sprawled on a chaise lounge under a huge umbrella, wearing shorts so tiny they might as well be lingerie. It’s a miracle her store hasn’t been rebranded as one. I don’t know where my cousin shops from, but the store really should consider changing its description.

“Seriously?” I snap, narrowing my eyes at her.

She barely glances up from where she’s slathering an abnormal amount of sunscreen over her arms. “What?”

I gesture at the rifle. “I was kind of in the middle of something.”

She blinks her big brown eyes at me like I’m speaking another language. “And what does that have to do with me?”

The irritation dissolves as quickly as it came. It’s hard to stay mad at Isa when she’s so effortlessly charming. She’s the best friend I didn’t ask for but wouldn’t trade for the world. I love having her around, even if we couldn’t be more different.

“You broke my concentration,” I grumble.

She shrugs. “Maybe you need a break. You’ve been at it for an hour.

Unless you’re training to join the Olympics—or Cosa Nostra , which your father would first jump off a cliff before he lets you join—you could use a little sunshine.

” She eyes me from head to toe. “Your nose is starting to burn, by the way.”

Only then do I notice the ache in my shoulders and the soreness in my arms. It’s easy to lose track of time with a gun in my hand, and it’s a good thing I have my cousin around to nag me about things like sunscreen. Isa may be a little bossy, but she’s good at reminding me to take care of myself.

“Come on.” She pats the space beside her. “Sit down before you roast out here.”

I drop onto the lounge chair, and she squeezes a generous dollop of sunscreen into her palm.

“I can handle it,” I protest, smiling.

She rolls her eyes. “You’ll just do it wrong.”

“Is there a wrong way to apply sunscreen?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” she says firmly. “Your way.”

I laugh. “And what exactly is wrong with my way?”

“Everything. You really think I’ll let you put your dirty hands anywhere near your face?” She huffs. “It’s a miracle your face doesn’t look like a gravel driveway, the way you treat it.” She clicks her tongue like a disappointed mother.

“If my face offends you that much, you’re welcome to head back to your overpriced penthouse,” I tease. It’s a running joke between us. She spends so little time there that I’m half-convinced it’s just a glorified storage unit. She literally has to clear the cobwebs each time she goes home.

Her mouth pulls up into a smirk. “You’d miss me if I leave, and that’s why I stay.”

“I can’t argue with that,” I admit. “But I’d like the chance to try missing you for once.”

She throws her head back and lets out a throaty laugh, then smacks my arm playfully. “Shut up, or I’ll leave for real.”

Even though I give her grief about it, I actually enjoy my cousin’s presence. In fact, if not for her, I’d probably have gone crazy all alone in this big, silent house.

Last year, I dreaded her leaving for college, but to my surprise, she deferred so we could go together. We’re still deciding between staying in Chicago, heading to New York, or trying Berkeley. Truthfully, the location doesn’t matter as much as getting away from this house—and my father.

Just then, Isa’s phone pings with a notification.

She glances over at it and makes a face.

“Can you believe that Justice has been going behind my back to hang out with that server from Tarantino’s?

That’s not even the worst part though—can you also believe that I’ve been ordering him food and tipping the side bitch extra to bring him meals straight from the stove—basically paying her to have a quickie with my boyfriend! ”

I wince as her voice reaches an ear-splitting screech. “How did you find out?”

“Walked in on them.” She grabs a towel to wipe her hands. “And now I just want to be left alone, and he keeps calling me. I gave him two days to move out of the apartment, or I’ll throw him out, and he won’t like me if I do.”

I narrow my eyes. “Didn’t I tell you not to trust him and not to buy him all those expensive things? He’s a loser, Isa. This doesn’t surprise me.”

She shrugs. “They barely cost anything.”

Her allowance from Nonno Lucio could feed a family of five for almost a year.

And she lives her life like she’s in a personal competition with herself to see how much of the allowance she can blow through.

Thanks to her, my once-basic wardrobe now looks like it belongs to a runway model, with all sorts of dresses, shoes, and purses that I’ll never wear, courtesy of her.

Thinking of my Nonno reminds me of the letter I found years ago.

My curiosity over it hasn’t yet abated, and I’ve found myself on the verge of telling Isa about it a hundred times.

I still don’t know what to make of it or how I feel about being the granddaughter of a man who despised my parents’ union.

My relationship with Lucio Sanna is basically non-existent, and now that I know it has everything to do with the fact that his son-in-law took his daughter from him, well, it definitely puts some things into perspective. Like why Papa never, ever talks about him.

Isa doesn’t know much about my grandfather other than what she’s told me: He’s her grand-uncle, never smiles, and never complains about sending her copious amounts of money. He’s been her guardian since her father, Lorenzo Sanna, passed away when Isa was little.

I wonder what Nonno will think about me. I’m the product of a union that he never supported for his daughter. A daughter who is now dead. I wonder if he even thinks of me as family at all. Does he even know I exist?

“Anyway, enough about that jackass,” my cousin’s voice cuts into my thoughts. I blink back to the present to see her leaning forward on the chaise lounge, eyes bright with curiosity. “Oliver’s been trying to talk to you for the longest time, and?—”

I hold up a hand to stop her. “Nope.”

“What does that mean?”

“What does what mean? I’m not interested in Oliver.”

“Why not?” She throws her hands into the air. “He’s cute, and he’s the sort of boring, good boy who won’t break your heart.”

I groan and flop down on my back. “It’s not about getting my heart broken. I’m not just interested in Oliver.”

Her mouth opens, and I quickly cut in before she can say anything else. “Or any other boy.”

She pouts. “I give up on you. Everybody’s always asking me about you. Do you know how painful it is to keep on telling them that you’re not interested? You’re way more fascinated by your stupid guns like some hitman than romance. I can’t wait for the day you’ll finally get an interest in a boy.”

“Never,” I lie.

There was one boy—the most fascinating person I’ve ever met, a boy who made me pray, but it feels like it happened in a whole other lifetime.

I don’t know why he, out of every person I’ve ever met in my life, has managed to leave an impression.

Maybe it’s just the mystery of him. After all, who doesn’t like a good mystery?

I never found out the boy’s name, and I haven’t run into him again at any other event Papa forced me to attend. It’s almost like he disappeared into thin air after that summer retreat.