Page 26 of Mine Again (Mafia Bride #2)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Isabella

I ’m still smiling when I get home, and my grin only gets bigger when I pull out Sebastian’s card from my bag. Turning it over between my fingers, I stare at it for a little while.

Sebastian Moretti

His name is embossed, bold and stark, like the man himself.

There’s nothing on the card except his name and a phone number. No company. No address.

Is this how the rich and powerful do it?

I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been handed a business card before.

Will I call him like he so boldly commanded?

The answer should be obvious. I just lost my only viable candidate for Plan NUPTIAL.

Argh.

It was supposed to be simple. Find a kind, predictable man with a low-risk profession and a decent credit score. Someone who doesn’t carry a burner phone. Someone whose greatest life-threatening decision is whether or not to go gluten-free.

Sebastian Moretti is not that man.

He doesn’t walk, he prowls. He doesn’t talk, he commands. He looks at you like he already knows what you’ll say and has decided whether it’s worth listening to.

He’s everything my plan says I should avoid.

And yet, here I am, turning his card over again like it might suddenly fold out with instructions.

Moretti.

That’s not a Mafia name, is it? At least I haven’t heard of it in our circles.

But I can’t help the whisper in the back of my mind.

What if I’ve missed it? No, all the big-name players are known, and Moretti isn’t one of them.

He’s probably part of a regular business powerhouse family with sharp suits and tighter NDAs.

Still, if I ever decide to contact him, I’ll do a little digging. Just in case.

But that would kill the spirit of my own tagline, wouldn’t it?

Because love shouldn’t require a background check.

I sigh, shake my head, and open the drawer of my nightstand. With a deliberate motion, I slide the card underneath my journal and shut it quietly.

No matter how tempting contacting him might be, a man like him needs to wait.

Coming across as too eager with someone like Sebastian would be a grave mistake.

Not if marriage is the end goal.

I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, fingers tapping idly on my stomach.

Fine.

If I’m serious about Plan NUPTIAL, I probably shouldn’t throw the whole strategy out because a walking fantasy gave me butterflies.

I just need to recalibrate.

My eyes drift to the laptop on the bedside table.

Should I brave the dating app again?

I stare at it, undecided .

One more look can’t hurt, right? Maybe the first new message will be from another Andrea.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I open the screen and log into the app I promised myself I was done with.

The moment it loads, the notifications hit me like a slap.

Three hundred eighty-nine new messages.

Wow, I’m a popular girl.

I should be flattered. Instead, I groan and drop my head back against the pillows.

“Ugh.”

I can’t go through all this trash again just to maybe find one or two decent men.

“Come on, Isa. Big girl panties.”

I squint at the screen and begin scrolling, hoping another Andrea will magically appear.

But no. A sea of terrible openers and profile photos with sunglasses and flexed biceps floods the feed. One man is holding a fish. Another is… why is he shirtless on a tractor?

“This is what I get for trying to date outside the Mafia,” I mutter.

Still, I tap one message open. Then another. And another.

The more I scroll, the clearer it becomes. There’s a reason I set the bar so low. Because apparently, that’s still too high.

Seriously, I’m done.

I won’t allow my life to become… this… this absurd.

Besides, Sebastian gave me his number. And despite his aura of superiority, he’s becoming an increasingly attractive option.

I tap to delete the account but hesitate.

For curiosity’s sake, I open my profile.

I blink, leaning closer.

No way.

This isn’t… mine. Is it?

The photo is. But the text?

Did my profile get hijacked by a reality show contestant?

Isabella, 22. Curves in all the right places, confidence, and chaos.

Gym is life. Bonus points if you’ve got alpha energy and own at least one protein shaker.

Family is everything, especially loud, tight-knit ones.

The closer, the better. Like, zero personal space kind of close.

Looking for someone who knows what they want and isn’t afraid to take it.

I lift. I love. I don’t play games (unless it’s strip poker).

Dislikes: weak coffee, weaker men. DM me if you’ve got gains, goals, and a good jawline.

What the actual hell?

Who did this? Clearly someone had their fun with it.

Gym is life? I hate the gym with a passion. Always have, always will.

Father made us go at least three times a week with a personal female trainer so we’d always look our best. Since his death, I haven’t set foot in one.

Why would anybody mess with dating profiles?

Don’t they have better things to do? Like, I don’t know, swindle people out of their life savings?

Bastards. No wonder the messages are garbage.

If this app is so easily hackable, it has to go.

Disgusted, I exit the app, right-click the icon, and hit “Uninstall.” And just like that, it’s gone.

I shut the laptop and toss it aside. Flopping onto my stomach, I scream into a pillow.

Is this common on those apps?

They’re clearly not the way to go.

Maybe I will call Sebastian… eventually.

Christmas is around the corner, and he can wait.

Let him wonder.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned growing up around powerful men, it’s this.

They hate waiting.

And I’ve decided to become very, very patient.