Page 49 of Mine Again (Mafia Bride #2)

Chapter Forty-Eight

Luca

I wash the zucchini for our dinner, my eyes fixed on the large screen mounted on the living room wall.

The picture changes as Isa triggers another motion sensor, the camera panning to follow her. Her pace is fast, her movements sharp. It’s been that way since she left the lookout half an hour ago.

I came back to the house, but every part of me is still out there with her. My chest burns with the need to explain. To hold her close. But I’d only make it worse right now. She needs to move. To rage. To feel like she has some control left. Letting her walk is the least I can do.

And I need something to keep my mind occupied.

Cooking usually helps. But today, I can barely hold a zucchini steady. My hand tightens on the knife, and I force myself to slow down. I need focus, or I’ll lose a finger.

I draw a breath and exhale slowly, grounding myself as I slice long, even ribbons of zucchini. Each one is thin enough to roll without breaking. My fingers move automatically, but my mind stays on her.

I should have told Isa straight away that Antonio had one condition for our deal.

And that’s on me. I agreed .

Not knowing how long it would take me to claim Isa back, I was willing to enter into that bargain.

But will she understand?

I’ll make her understand. She has to.

Still, the unease churning in my gut coils tighter with every passing second, ready to detonate.

I expected anger. I braced for tears. But this fury? This silence?

I didn’t see that coming.

My gaze keeps drifting back to the screen on the wall.

Isa is still walking. The camera glitches as she passes beneath a canopy of trees, then picks her up again a few seconds later. Her posture is rigid. It’s like I can feel her unraveling, and there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop it.

She can’t get off the island, but the way she’s storming through the terrain, I’m afraid she’ll trip and break her neck.

Waiting for her to cool off is torture. The kind she’d argue I deserve. And she’s probably right.

I salt the slices and set them aside, then reach for the eggplant. The heat of the pan warms the air around me, but it doesn’t reach the cold knot lodged in my chest.

I check the screen again.

Isa is at the cliffs now, facing the open sea, watching the sun drop lower toward the horizon. Her arms hang listlessly at her sides, her hair pulled loose by the wind. She looks so small from here. So far away.

I need to be closer to her. But I can’t chase her again. Not yet.

The smell of garlic drifts up from the stove, but I barely register it. My focus is locked on her. Always her.

I put Isa through hell today. Pushed too far, too fast.

Granted, she insisted I tell her, but I never meant to overwhelm her like that. The moment just slipped out of my control, and I couldn’t stop it.

I couldn’t lie to her. I never have. And I wasn’t going to start now.

I roll a strip of eggplant around the ricotta filling, then reach for a zucchini ribbon and do the same. The coils line up neatly in the dish, one after the other, alternating. Order in the middle of chaos.

I thought she’d be back by now. That the worst of the shock would have faded. Or that maybe she’d storm through the door and scream at me.

I’d take it. Gladly.

Anything but this silence. Anything but her out there, alone.