Page 1 of Mine Again (Mafia Bride #2)

Luca

T he itch starts the second I’m back on my island.

It’s always there, lurking under the surface, but I’ve never gone this long without checking in on her.

But I had no choice. The job was too risky to get distracted, or worse, for anyone to catch me watching her and put her on their radar.

So I buried myself in code, building firewalls, a ghost in the machine. I told myself it was for her. For us. For our future.

But that logic doesn’t quiet the hunger clawing at me.

I’m used to seeing her every single day. Her smile, her frown, the way her hair falls over her shoulders when she leans over her laptop, framing her face just right.

Keeping myself from watching her has scraped at the edges of my control, and now, my anticipation builds with every step.

Still, I pause before I push the door open, scanning the perimeter. I sense vulnerabilities like muscle memory, my body registering them before my mind does.

I move through the doorframe, fingers flying over the security panel. Retinal scan. Voice ID. Passcodes that shift with the hour. By the time the door seals shut behind me, the house is mine again. No weak points, no gaps. I control every inch of this space.

And then… I let myself breathe.

Except tonight, my chest aches, my breath caught somewhere I can’t reach.

I need to see her.

Ignoring how tired I am, I head straight to my office, dropping into my oversized leather chair. I press a key, and while my system hums to life, I close my eyes for a few precious seconds.

Two days without sleep. Barely a handful of hours each night in the last four weeks. That job in Brazil took longer than it should have. The terrain, the network, the chaos I couldn’t predict.

I still finished ahead of schedule, but late by my standards. Unacceptable.

There are reasons I hate traveling, and I was reminded of every single one of them.

I let out a sigh, forcing my eyelids open.

Ten screens flicker on in a synchronized sequence, illuminating the room in an artificial glow. I reach for the bar cart beside me, pour a generous glass of Scotch, and lift the crystal tumbler to my lips. The burn is a welcome distraction.

Most of my work doesn’t require me to leave this chair. That’s the way I like it. Everything I need, everything I control, is here, within reach.

But the last client was different. That job needed boots on the ground. If I’d turned it down, the Jackal would’ve taken over, and that wasn’t an option.

So I sucked it up and spent four weeks in a place where even the best encryption was only as strong as the shaky satellite connection backing it.

Four weeks away from her.

Too fucking long.

I swivel my chair back toward the screens, fingers already moving across the keyboard. The feed comes up in seconds.

My gaze shifts to the rightmost screen, where the camera in her bedroom is always on. I like watching her come and go throughout the day. It makes me feel connected to her, almost as if we were back to how things used to be.

But right now, her room is dark.

What the hell?

It’s ten at night in Italy. She’s always in her room at this time. And not because she’s asleep.

No, my little butterfly is a night owl, usually tapping away on her keyboard, trading crypto.

She’s good at it too, and enormous pride swells in my chest at how clever my girl is.

She missed a few steps to keep her identity safe, but I made sure she can’t be traced and trades as anonymously as possible.

I switch the camera to night vision.

No one is in the bed.

The sheets are untouched.

My eyes narrow, and I sit up straighter.

Where the hell is she?

My little farfalla’s daily routine is as predictable as the sun rising. It hasn’t changed in years. Even after the death of her father ten and a half weeks ago, she stuck to it. Though I could tell she’d been testing the limits, stretching her wings a little more.

Dinner is served at the Accardi household at precisely six o’clock.

Afterward, my girl spends an hour with her family in the library.

Her father never joined her mother and sisters when he was alive, but the siblings always played a round of cards while their mother read and supervised them from her chair in the corner.

At precisely eight o’clock, they all go to their rooms.

I glance at my watch. Maybe it’s jet lag, and I miscalculated the time.

But no. I don’t make mistakes when it comes to her .

It’s one in the afternoon here in the Queen Charlotte Islands. Italy is nine hours ahead. That makes it ten at night.

I switch to the library feed, but as expected, the room is dark.

Is she with one of her sisters ?

I check the hidden cameras I placed throughout the house six years ago. They’re outdated now. Better ones exist, but I can only work with what’s already in place. The security system her father installed only covers the outside perimeter.

The whole house is eerily quiet. It usually is at this hour, but tonight, something isn’t right.

My gut churns, the unease gnawing at me. I rap my fingers impatiently against the hard surface of my desk, the rhythm a futile attempt to calm the growing sense of dread.

I wish I had placed cameras in her sisters’ bedrooms. That would have made this easier. But that was a line I hadn’t wanted to cross.

Come on, farfalla , show yourself.

I should’ve implanted a tracker in her. Life would be so much simpler. But six years ago, when I wired the house with cameras, I hadn’t thought it necessary. And my departure a year later had been too sudden to prepare for this.

I retrieve the footage from her bedroom, starting with the day I left for Brazil.

Her image flickers to life, my first glimpse of her in four long weeks, and for a moment, I forget everything else.

It’s my favorite angle of her.

Fuck, she’s so damn beautiful.

She’s sitting on her bed, typing on her laptop. She bites her lip, deep in thought. Reaching up, she brushes a curl of dark hair from her face.

It’s been getting longer. She must have missed her last haircut, probably because her father isn’t there anymore to regiment every aspect of his family’s life.

Her tongue darts out, swiping across her plump bottom lip, and my cock reacts instantly.

Dammit.

I press my palm over my growing erection, my eyes sticking to her exposed cleavage as it rises with each breath.

It’s a struggle to force my gaze away. I can’t get distracted.

I speed up the footage, watching for anything unusual .

The first couple of weeks, nothing changes. But she’s on her phone more. Why?

She got that phone when her younger sister, Mari, was set to get married so they could stay in touch. It was a clever move since their father forbade them from having phones.

But Mari and Mateo, the last De Marco Don, are supposedly dead, their yacht blown apart in an explosion Niccolo Romero, the new Don, claimed as his work. No bodies were ever found.

Isa and Mari were close, but Isa only mourns her sister in public. Behind closed doors, everything seems like it always was.

Is she talking to Mari in the footage?

It’s a burner phone, and even I need a lead to track something that deep in the system. I’ll get there eventually. But right now, I need to find my butterfly.

Two weeks ago, her texting habits changed. She started making calls. Long calls.

I lean closer to the monitor, my breath shallow, eyes narrowing. The glow from the screen reflects off my face as I zoom in.

I know every detail of her, every freckle across her nose, five of them in a perfect little cluster. I’ve memorized them all, traced them with my mind a thousand times.

But right now, I wish I could reach through the screen and touch them. Touch her. Feel the warmth of her skin beneath my fingers, the softness of her breath against me.

No. Don’t get distracted.

She’s laughing. I can’t hear it because there’s no audio, but the memory of her laughter bursts through my mind like a melody I can’t shake.

That sound. Her giggle. It’s too bright, too free. Too happy.

It’s not for me.

And it’s definitely not for Mari.

Fuck.

It can’t be that asshole Andrea. I took care of him.

Dread tightens my gut, spreading like poison through my veins as I watch.

The room shrinks in on me, the air too thick.

It’s like she’s slipping through my fingers.

Not happening!

Isabella Accardi is mine.

MINE.

I’ve been obsessed with her ever since she hit puberty and grew into herself. Our families were close friends.

We practically grew up together, and our fathers always intended for us to marry. That was fine by me. More than fine. And she was happy about it too.

Until my father had to ruin it all. Bastardo .

I return to the footage. A week ago, her calls stretched into the night.

Who the fuck is she talking to?

My gaze shifts back to the screens, and I check her emails. Unlike with Andrea, there’s nothing there.

My stomach tightens, my pulse quickening with every second.

When her father was alive, I never had to worry about anything. He kept a tight rein on his daughters, restricting them to the safety of their home to prevent any men from getting too close.

He was protective, not of their innocence, but of his plans to marry them off to the highest bidder.

With him gone, I have no idea who might be slipping through the cracks.

I focus on the footage, trying to calm the rising panic in my chest. There’s no telling what she’s been up to without her father’s watchful eye.

I’ve always known her routines, her habits, everything about her. But now… in just a matter of weeks, days even, everything is changing.

I don’t like it.

Trying to shake off the unease, I return my focus to the camera feed of her room. Yesterday, Isa was curled up in bed, holding her stomach.

I frown. Is she sick ?

Her mother checks on her, her sisters too, comforting her.

What’s going on?

Then I see it. That same night, her family leaves. Where the hell are they going? How can they just leave Isa behind?

It was clearly her plan. Because the second they’re gone, my butterfly was wheeling out a suitcase from her closet.

A fucking suitcase.

I stitch together her movements from different feeds. She feigns illness when crossing paths with the staff, then slips out the back door into the night.

A black Audi pulls up at the gate. She jumps in.

I rewind and zoom in.

My blood turns to ice when she kisses the driver.

I can’t see his face, but I want to punch him until he’s unrecognizable .

Red. I see fucking red.

I run the plate. Within seconds, a name flashes on the screen. Rage consumes me.

My fingers fly over the keyboard, pulling up more details.

The last line on the screen makes my blood freeze.

Flight details…

To Vegas.

I’m out of my seat in an instant.

My little butterfly thinks she can fly away?

She forgot she belongs to me.