Page 18 of Broken Mafia Prince (His to Break #1)

I don’t want to spend this journey keeping a close eye on her. I want to try to figure out what Father’s playing at before I walk into his study.

As we take off, I lean back in my seat, pretending to relax.

But my mind is racing, in our line of work, trying to unravel my father’s twisted plans.

This isn’t just about family grudges anymore.

In our world, even if you want to keep women and children out of the fight, the bloodshed always touches them in the end.

The point is, I’ll never hold a gun to a woman or a child. That’s not something I’m willing to do—not even for my father.

It was naive of me to think he would share the same principles. How is a man who never cared a damn for his own wife magically supposed to develop a conscience for someone else’s innocent relative?

I try to get someone to look at her arm as soon as the plane takes off, but to my surprise—and suspicion—she insists on doing it herself. And she does it well. Too well. Her hands are steady, movements precise, as though she’s done this before.

For the rest of the flight to Chicago, a thick silence wraps around us. She glares at me. I pretend not to notice, but my focus keeps drifting back to her, and I can’t seem to help myself.

I shouldn’t be looking at her, but there I am, watching how the light plays off her shiny, dark hair, how her eyes shift from green to gold like sunlight over a forest. I note the curve of her lips, the way her upper lip is just a little fuller than the bottom, setting her mouth into a permanent, unintentional pout.

All these years, I’ve fought against the urge to seek her out, to remind her about the scarred boy from the orchard, even though I know she’s the enemy.

It turns out, I wouldn’t have had to remind her. She hasn’t forgotten. But it doesn’t matter. Unfortunately, it still doesn’t change the fact that we may as well be worlds apart.

Eventually, she breaks the silence. “What happened today?—”

“I had nothing to do with that.”

“So delaying me on the tarmac long enough for your father’s newest employee to reach me wasn’t part of the plan?”

Before I can respond, the flight attendant’s voice crackles over the intercom. “Please remain seated and fasten your seatbelts. We’re preparing for landing.”

“I had nothing to do with what happened today, Giulia,” I repeat, my words thick with a truth I’m not sure she believes.

Her eyes search mine, intense and searching, for what feels like an eternity. Then she looks away, almost imperceptibly nodding, as though accepting something she doesn’t quite understand. I see the wheels turning in her head, and a part of me wants to know what she’s thinking.

“Are you ever going to tell me your name?” she asks with a tinge of frustration. “We made a deal back then, and you didn’t keep your end of it.”

I feel a strange itch under my skin, an urgent need pulsing through me. I can’t name it, and I don’t want to, but it’s there, gnawing at me as the plane touches down.

“Raffaele Gagliardi,” I tell her, just as the flight attendant crosses to the heavy doors to push them open.

“Giulia Montanari,” she whispers, like it’s a secret between us, a quiet confession.

“I know.”

“How long have you known?”

Instead of responding, I lock eyes with Tommaso across the plane. After years of working side by side, we’ve learned how to communicate without words. He nods in understanding and steps forward.

“Tommaso will drive you home.”

There’s a moment, a flash, where I think she might say something else. I find myself holding my breath, waiting. Then her eyes shutter, and she stands.

“Thanks for the ride,” she says flippantly, as though none of this matters, as though she’s walking away from something that didn’t leave a mark.

“Stay safe,” I mutter.

“Then tell Daddy Gagliardi to lay off me. I’d like to see my twenties,” she shoots back, the bitterness clear in her words.

I watch her walk off the plane, hypnotized by the smooth sway of her hips, the confident steps of a woman who’s learned the world’s rules and plays by her own.

She’s still the same girl from that retreat, and at the same time, she’s not. Giulia Montanari is all woman now, one in my father’s crosshairs, and that’s a fucking problem.

My hands tighten on the armrest of the leather chair as the memory of her staring up at me with those big, terrified eyes slams into me again.

I rub my chest, trying to ease the tightness in it, and wonder if I need an antacid or something. It’s just heartburn , I tell myself. It happens to everyone. It has nothing to do with the fiery woman who just walked off my plane.

But as much as I try to deny it, the girl from the orchard is back. And this time, I’m not sure I can let her slip away.

Keeping her isn’t an option, though. Even if our families weren’t at each other’s throats, I’m not sure she wants anything to do with me.

I rake a hand through my hair. This is going to be a problem, and I can already see it unravelling. Getting caught up in it may just destroy me. But even knowing that for a fact doesn’t make me want to save myself from what’s coming.

Let it come.