Page 16 of Broken Mafia Prince (His to Break #1)

GIULIA

I freeze at the sound of the man’s voice, my breath catching in my throat. My gaze shifts over the hulking guard’s shoulder, and in an instant, my world tilts on its axis.

Oh god. It’s him.

I try not to gape as I take him in—the man in the tailored suit standing like he owns the world. Shock, surprise, and an unwelcome warmth swirl in the pit of my stomach. It’s been eleven years—eleven years that feel like an eternity—but I’d know that face anywhere, even without the noticeable scar.

The boy from the retreat.

He’s haunted my thoughts for years, a bittersweet memory I tried to bury. A part of me had given up hope of ever seeing him again, but another part, one I didn’t even want to admit existed, held on, wishing. And now, here he is.

I wait for the recognition to hit him, but instead, his blue eyes flick over me, cold and disinterested, like I’m nothing. A sharp pain passes through my chest at that, and I hide my flinch. Steeling my spine, I allow anger to take the place of hurt, as I’ve done so many times in the past.

“You must be the boss then,” I tell him coldly. “You’re in my plane.”

“I don’t see your name written on it.”

“Neither is yours.” I shrug. “So I’m going to have to ask you to get off as some of us have more important places to be than a strip club or a cigar smoke–polluted basement.”

He raises a brow at me, and I lock my knees to stop the shiver that courses through me. As a kid, there was something dark and alluring about him. It has only magnified in proportion, and even without the armed men standing around him, he still looks lethal.

He radiates a quiet confidence, from the way his dark hair is styled perfectly to the way his dark designer suit molds against his tall, impressively commanding frame. Even without the armed entourage surrounding him, he radiates power.

The boy I once knew didn’t just get tangled in the web of the mafia—he’s become part of its fabric, a made man . It seems I was right to think that he was involved in the mafia.

Over the years, I’ve developed a deep hatred for anything that has to do with the mafia. That life took my family from me, even Papa.

I should hate everything he represents. That life—the mafia life—stole everything from me.

I should hate the man before me, too, solely based on him being one of them, but instead, all I feel is a burning curiosity toward him. What’s his name? What has he been doing all these years? Where’s his dog? Does he remember a retreat from years ago where he met a girl? Where he met me?

“How much?” His voice brings me out of my reverie, and I blink at him, wondering what he’s talking about.

“Excuse me?”

“How much to use your plane?” His voice is tinged with impatience. “I’ll even add a little extra on top to sweeten the pot. I can, of course, choose to use it anyway, but I’m choosing to be a gentleman.”

I snort, the sound escaping before I can stop it. Gentleman? Him? If he has a gentlemanly bone in his body, I’ll eat my hat.

“Huh, let me think,” I say, dragging out the words and tapping a finger on my chin for effect.

His cerulean-blue eyes narrow dangerously, but I pretend not to notice. Finally, I snap my fingers with exaggerated delight and sarcasm. “How about a million ‘no way in hell’? Does that work for you?”

“One hundred thousand.” He ignores my goading. “That should be more than enough to cover the expenses and the slight inconvenience.”

“Nothing can cover the cost of my time,” I retort, a fake smile plastered on my face. “Or the stench of BO and hairspray you’ll leave behind. Maybe you should try flying commercial, that is, if your ego can fit in with all of the other passengers.”

The large, bald guard who had been keeping me from climbing up my plane stares at me with wide, horrified eyes. His silent plea is clear: Stop. You’re playing with fire.

“Two hundred thousand,” the dark-haired man says coolly, ignoring my jabs. “That’s my final offer. Give him your bank details and?—”

“I prefer cash,” I cut in, unable to resist.

His eyes narrow further, the blue of them darkening like a storm brewing over the Mediterranean. I find myself enjoying his irritation more than I should. Am I bored, reckless, or both? Or maybe it’s much more complicated than that; maybe I’m eager to keep his interest and force him to remember me.

It’s crazy; I should want no part of him, or this. I should be running as far from him as possible, but all I want to do is step close and run my fingers over where the familiar mark used to be.

“Get her the money,” he orders.

The bald man’s head swings between us in surprise, but he hurries away a moment later to carry out the command.

While we wait, I try not to stare at the suited man, distracting myself by idly messing around on my phone.

I can feel his gaze on me, though, like a drill boring holes into me.

It’s intense, like a physical presence, and it sets every nerve on edge.

I check my watch and tap my foot like I’m in a hurry, though I’m dreading the moment I’ll return to Chicago.

To him. To my father. For my own sanity, I need to be endless miles away from him.

I’ve been plotting my escape for years, and as soon as I can, I’ll pack up and disappear, putting miles of ocean and sky between us.

The guard returns, lugging a briefcase. My eyes widen despite myself. Do they just carry that much cash around? I’d expected my demand to be a problem. Apparently, I was wrong.

“Two hundred thousand,” the guard announces, dropping the briefcase on the floor with a heavy thud. He flips it open, revealing neat stacks of bills. “You can count it if you like.”

I don’t look at the blue-eyed man as I go down to my hunches and run my fingers over the crispy notes. Plucking up a bundle, I make a deliberate show of counting it, the rough texture of the notes oddly grounding.

“That was quick,” I remark, tilting my head slightly. “You must be used to this—paying people off at the drop of a hat.”

“Now that that’s concluded,” he says, his hands sliding casually into his pockets, “I think it’s time we say our goodbyes.”

I raise my head, locking eyes with him. “Concluded? Far from it, mister. Unfortunately for you, I’m not someone you can buy.” I open my palm, letting the bundle slip through my fingers. The cash flutters to the tarmac in a scattered mess, carried by the wind.

“Everyone has a price.” The man’s voice is as cold as ice.

“I don’t,” I snap. “All the money in the world couldn’t buy me. So take your cash, shove it where the sun doesn’t shine, and get the hell off my plane, asshole .”

Who the hell does he think he is? Stealing my plane, acting cocky about it like I should be grateful he deigned to use it, and then adding salt to injury by throwing money at me like I’m grinding on a pole. No way in hell! Not now, not ever.

I hate men like him, and unfortunately the mafia is teaming with them, or maybe I hate such assholes because my life is surrounded with varies of their cliches.

Arrogant, entitled, and utterly convinced the world bows at their feet.

Maybe I hate because I’ve spent my entire life hating on them and because of what they’ve taken from me.

Over the years, I’ve learned how to deal with their intrusion, and I enjoy nothing more than taking them down a peg or two.

Around us, the air seems to drop down to a freezing level, and I can see that the man has gone still, his blue eyes darkening.

The boy from years ago was surly, but there had still been some vulnerability to him that made him feel human.

The man before me wears an older, unscarred version of that boy’s face, but nothing else is the same.

The silence stretches between us, taut as a bowstring, until finally, he speaks. “So you would never have a change of heart, then?”

“I guess you’ll never know.”

Satisfaction blooms in my chest as I spin on my heels, prepared to leave him and his money behind.

“And here I thought you wouldn’t mind lending your plane to me for old time’s sake. Or are we no longer friends, Giulia Montanari?”

I come to a screeching halt at the sound of my name, heart thudding so fast that I’m afraid it’s going to burst right out of my chest and splatter onto the hard tarmac. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, trying to combat the effect that my name rolling off his tongue has on me.

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to steady myself, trying to ignore the way hearing my name on his lips sends shivers down my spine. Slowly, I turn to face him, my mouth parting in disbelief.

“You remember?”

The hurt I’d felt at him not remembering everything from that day melts away in an instant. He remembers. He remembers me.

I thought I was crazy for still remembering every single detail from that magical afternoon for so long.

For holding onto something that probably meant nothing to him.

I’d even convinced myself that it was better this way, that it was all just a fleeting moment for him.

But now? Now I know he not only remembers but must have gone out of his way to find me since I never told him my last name; it makes me feel less insane.

A man like him—clearly a made man—has no shortage of resources. If he wanted to, he could track anyone on the face of the earth. So why didn’t he ever try to reach out?

The thought spins in my head, dizzying and maddening all at once. Why remember me if I was nothing to him? Why stay silent all these years?

But then, isn’t that just the nature of men? Always keeping their cards close to their chest, wanting something until they don’t, dropping you like dead weight the moment they find a shinier distraction.

Not that the blue-eyed man ever had me to begin with, but I suppose it doesn’t matter now. I refuse to let his Olympian physique and those infuriatingly gorgeous eyes change that.

Clearing my throat, I cross my arms over my chest. “I thought you lost your memory around the same time you lost your personality.”

“And you haven’t changed at all.”

The words land somewhere between an insult and a compliment, and I’m not sure which way to take them.

There are a hundred questions I want to throw at him— Why didn’t you look for me if you knew who I was?

What’s your name? Did you ever go back to the retreat, hoping to see me?

Did you pray for us to meet again, like I did?

Instead, I settle for something safer, something smaller. “Where’s Marty?”

I half-expect him to tell me his dog’s name wasn’t Marty, that I’d gotten it wrong. But instead, his jaw tightens, the corners of his mouth pressing together until they turn white.

“He died.”

Two simple words. But they land with the weight of a sledgehammer, leaving me reeling.

Even though I suspected as much when he hadn’t replied immediately, it still doesn’t prepare me for how those two words slam into me like a bat.

I suck in a breath, heart panging for him. “I’m sorry.” I hesitate, realizing I still don’t even know his name. I wait for him to fill the silence, to give me something, but he doesn’t.

“Well?” I snap, trying to cover my discomfort. “Are you going to make me play twenty questions, or are you going to tell me your name?”

Only he can evoke a hundred different emotions in me within the space of minutes. Only he makes me feel like I’m on a rollercoaster with no clear path. It’s always been like this with him, but it’s even worse now, because a few more ingredients have been added to the already complicated brew.

It’s impossible not to notice how gorgeous he is and how it affects me. Just standing here with him makes my stomach flutter wildly, and it feels like I can’t get enough air into my lungs. I recognize attraction even if I’ve not felt it before.

His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—even though I’m not supposed to, I like it.

“You’ve always been such a curious little thing.”

I take offense immediately. “I’m average height in many countries. And don’t act like you know me. We spent less than two hours together over a decade ago. You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough, Giulia.”

I shiver. There’s something about the way he says my name, something too intimate, something that makes me want to drop down to his feet and do whatever he wants me to.

It’s equivalent to a string, invisible but unyielding, tethering me to him. And worse, it makes me want to give in and drop my morals—which I don’t have many of to begin with.

This sudden, all-consuming attraction to a man I barely know is dangerous. Reckless. I’m better off taking my chances with any of the men Father has thrown at me over the years—men with polished smiles and empty hearts. Like my shoe-for-brains boyfriend, for example.

This way lies nothing but destruction. I should turn away now, before it’s too late.

“I make it a habit to know everything about the things that catch my interest. I know the girl from the retreat, and I know the woman now,” he continues.

He’s interested in me. That’s the only part of what he says that stays with me; the rest of his words dissolve into static.

My throat tightens, and I open my mouth to demand an explanation, but the sudden screech of tires cuts through the air.

I whip around, my heart leaping into my throat as a black SUV with tinted windows skids to a halt just a few feet away.

The car hasn’t even come to a complete stop when the passenger door flies open. A man leaps out, a gun already in his hand, the barrel pointed directly at me.

“Get down!” the blue-eyed man shouts behind me.

But it’s too late.

My eyes lock on the shooter’s hand as it jerks back with the recoil of the gun. Some absurd part of my brain notes that his grip is all wrong—too loose, too unsteady. He needs more practice.

Then the pain hits, ripping through my side like a blade. The world slows, each sound muted except for the pounding of my heartbeat.

Behind me, footsteps thunder closer, the cold clicks of guns being cocked a stark contrast to the heat blooming in my side.

The realization hits me like a second bullet, cold and terrifying.

He didn’t hesitate. He aimed right at me.

I was the target.

Someone wants me dead.