Page 18 of Mine Again (Mafia Bride #2)

Chapter Seventeen

Isabella

O ver the next two weeks, things with Andrea are progressing steadily.

Steady feels safe. Safe is smart. Smart is… not thrilling, but it’s reliable, and reliable is starting to look a lot like freedom.

So far, I like Andrea. He might be exactly what I need.

He’s witty in a low-key, slightly nerdy way. The kind of guy who drops a pun into conversation without needing applause afterward.

We’ve been in touch daily, and texting with him has become one of the best parts of my day. Which might be sad, but it also says a lot.

Right now, half the conversations revolve around Mateo trying to secure his reign. The other half involve my sister, the reluctant queen of la famiglia , planning a memorial service for her brother-in-law, our former don, who got shot in Canada.

Mia and I moved into their mansion a few days after Father’s funeral to help her organize everything, and the past ten days have been intense. So someone sending me a GIF of a cat dealing blackjack feels dangerously close to emotional intimacy.

The dating app we met on clearly wasn’t built for enduring communication. It kept crashing, freezing, and logging me out for no reason. Eventually, we gave up and switched to email, which somehow felt more personal.

But even that has started acting up. Messages disappear. Timestamps jump around.

Maybe Mercury is in retrograde. That’s supposed to mess with communication, right? Or maybe the universe just enjoys playing games with me.

I’ve done a little digging on Andrea. Because obviously, I can’t afford not to.

The last thing I want is to end up with another smooth-talking manipulator from our world wearing a nice suit. Or worse, for Andrea to turn out to be a sociopath with six aliases and just as many wives.

I didn’t stop at Googling. I dug deeper and cross-referenced public records, scanned metadata on his photos, checked his company through financial registries, and traced the IP address from one of his early emails.

Everything lines up.

Which is either reassuring or proof he’s good at hiding things. But my gut says he’s who he claims to be.

And my gut has been shaped by years of observing lies unravel behind polite smiles and closed doors.

Andrea seems real. Honest in a way that doesn’t need to be loud about it.

And for now, I’m choosing to believe that’s exactly what he is.

We’ve tried to meet in person a couple of times, but both plans fell through at the last minute. Work emergencies.

And yes, I checked. They were real. He wasn’t dodging me.

He sounded frustrated too. Like someone who actually wanted to follow through. But for some reason, something always gets in the way. Perhaps the universe just decided the timing wasn’t right.

After the last plan fell through, we spoke on the phone for the first time. He called during his lunch break. I slipped away into the garden, using the burner phone I bought months ago.

I originally got it to stay in touch with Mari when she was preparing for that cursed wedding to Renaldo Conti. At the time, I had to hide it because Father didn’t allow us to have anything he couldn’t control fully.

Now, with him gone, that’s not an issue anymore.

I’m not sure what I expected, but Andrea’s voice caught me off guard. It’s softer than I’m used to. Men like my father, and even Luca at times, could say one word and it felt like an order.

Andrea doesn’t sound like that.

It’s a strange adjustment, hearing kindness instead of steel. But it’s a welcome one.

I keep telling myself it’s refreshing. That soft is good. That this is what peace sounds like.

I told Mari about Andrea yesterday. I didn’t want to keep it a secret anymore. If I waited any longer, she’d be more hurt. We tell each other everything. Well… almost everything.

I’ve previously mentioned my wish to leave the Mafia life behind, but never the plans that came with it. Not because I didn’t trust her, but because I had to. The fewer people who knew while Father was still alive, the safer those plans and Mari were.

And afterward, Mari had her hands full with everything changing around her.

She urged me to be cautious, of course, but ultimately wants to support whatever decision I make.

It was the validation I needed. Proof that my current plan is the right one.

I want my sisters in my life. Always.

Mari and I are currently playing badminton in the garden against Mia. It’s the day before Gualtiero De Marco’s memorial service, and we needed something to take our minds off everything.

If I have to think about one more orchestral piece or count another bottle of champagne, whiskey, or whatever else Mari has hidden in the cellar, I’m going to rip my hair out and call it therapy.

“You’re serving like you’re trying to kill someone,” Mia says, swatting the shuttlecock back with zero effort .

“She is,” Mari replies from beside me. “That’s what happens when you assign her to logistics before giving her caffeine.”

“It was the whiskey,” I say, focusing. “Too many cases. And too much Mozart.”

“Excuses,” Mia says sweetly, returning another shot with practiced ease. I hit it with all my might.

“You know, two against one isn’t fair,” she calls out, chasing after the birdie.

“It is when you are the reigning family champion and have been undefeated for months,” I shoot back.

Before Mia can respond, someone steps onto the lawn, drawing our attention.

A man, a rather handsome one too, takes off his jacket, tosses it onto a nearby chair, and picks up the spare racket like it belongs in his hand.

He moves with a kind of confidence that doesn’t try too hard. Walking over to Mia, he stops by her side.

“Can’t have you fighting this battle on your own,” he says to her with a wink.

Mia freezes for a split second, surprised, before narrowing her eyes.

“You any good?” she asks.

He smirks. “I guess you’ll find out.”

I nudge Mari. “Who’s that?”

Mari leans in and whispers back, “Maximo Marcos. Mateo’s cousin. He must have just arrived from Chicago.”

I look at him again. He really is handsome. Cover-model material, if the magazine was something like Modern Don or Criminal Elite Weekly .

Early thirties, I’d say. Calm and in control in a way that makes everyone else subconsciously adjust to his presence. There’s a hint of arrogance too, but the kind that comes from knowing exactly who he is.

“The one taking over as Don in Chicago soon?” I ask.

Mari nods. “That’s him.”

I watch him step closer to the net, but all his focus is on Mia, who adjusts her stance like she doesn’t care. But I see it. The way her grip on the racket tightens. The way her posture shifts, subtle but sure. She’s pretending she doesn’t notice the heat of his attention.

Why has he joined us? Playing badminton with women is not typical for men from our world. Particularly not the power players.

Mari serves, the shuttlecock flying straight to Mia. She misses the shot, stomping in frustration.

I can’t help grinning. She’d normally have nailed that.

My gaze goes back to Maximo. He’s watching Mia… intently.

Is he interested in her?

Well, if he is, he has his work cut out for him.

This should be fun.