Page 51 of Mine Again (Mafia Bride #2)

Chapter Fifty

Isabella

M y eyes peel open slowly, heavy from one of the deepest sleeps I’ve had in years, maybe ever.

Not once did I wake. Not to shift positions, not from a dream, not even to check the time. That alone is unusual for me. My nights are usually a string of restless turns and shadowy thoughts.

I blink into the soft morning light, letting my surroundings come into focus. My heart sinks. I’m in the same room I woke up in yesterday.

I hadn’t been dreaming. The last twenty-four hours hadn’t been a nightmare, even if they felt like one more than once.

No wonder I slept like the dead. My body was wrecked from circling the island, twice. And my mind had taken an even greater beating, trying to process what seemed like years’ worth of revelations crammed into a few hours.

And the worst part? Something tells me I’ve only scratched the surface.

How many more secrets are still buried?

Still, I have to admit, it’s almost a relief to finally get answers to questions that have haunted me for years, and to others I didn’t even know I should be asking.

Like the fact that my father betrayed everyone.

But questions still churn in my mind, refusing to let go. And I’m determined to get answers.

Though that would mean talking to Luca.

I haven’t said a word to him since I ran from the lookout. Not even after dinner, when I went in search of a guest room, only to discover there isn’t one.

Apparently, Luca doesn’t receive guests. And according to him, I don’t count as one because this is my home. Which means, of course, there’s only one bed.

I was too drained to argue. Too worn down to rage. I figured I’d lock the bedroom door and let him sleep wherever he pleased. The floor. The couch. His helicopter. I really didn’t care.

But of course the damn bedroom door didn’t have a handle. Or a lock.

Why would it? In theory, there’s no one here to lock yourself away from.

Not that it matters. This house, and the island it sits on, might as well be Fort Knox.

So I took a long, hot shower to ease the soreness in my body, found neatly folded pajamas in my closet, and sprawled across the bed diagonally… just in case Luca got any ideas.

Apparently, it worked.

Where is he, anyway?

I sit up, listening for any sound from the bathroom, but the house is silent.

My gaze drifts across the room. Something past the edge of the mattress catches my eye.

Is that a foot?

I lean over the side of the bed, and, sure enough, there he is.

Luca is fast asleep on the floor, wrapped in a makeshift bed of blankets.

My heart stutters, picking up speed, even as my mind tries to reason with it.

I tilt my head, letting myself drink him in… just for a moment, while he’s asleep.

His features are calm, unguarded.

I hate it. I really do. Because to me, he’s still so perfect.

The neat trim of his facial hair. The memory of how it grazed my inner thighs on what I suppose was our wedding night.

And his lips are the perfect shade of pink, soft and full… and back in the day, they kissed me like I was the only thing that ever mattered.

One arm is tucked beneath his head, and I spot the edge of a tattoo peeking out from where his sleeve has ridden up.

I squint, trying to make out the delicate shape.

When did he get that?

It looks like a butterfly wing.

The flutters in my chest spread through every part of me.

I’m his butterfly. His little farfalla.

Then I notice his fingers twitch. Just slightly. That’s when I realize where his hand is resting… on top of a blanket that’s very obviously tented.

I bite down on my lip to keep a groan from escaping and tell myself to keep breathing, to not give in to the rush of memories flooding through me.

Because I remember those fingers. The way they move. And the way they stroke exactly what’s hidden beneath that blanket.

I also remember the look in his eyes as he stood over me, naked, his hand wrapped around his length, watching me as if I were something sacred. Right before he lowered his body over mine and claimed me.

Heat blooms across my skin, crawling up my neck, flushing my chest. My body stirs in ways it hasn’t for years… at least not while I was conscious.

A low groan cuts through the silence, and I freeze.

Was that me?

My eyes snap to Luca’s face.

Crap, he’s awake.

And staring right back at me.

I want the ground, or in this case, the bed, to swallow me whole.

He caught me staring. Lingering. Wanting.

I throw myself backward, my heart pounding out of my chest.

I have less than a minute to pull myself together before his head appears, sporting a cocky grin.

Spoiler alert: it wasn’t enough time.

His eyes lock on mine, that grin spreading wider as he props himself up on one elbow against the mattress.

“Well, if you want to do more than stare, farfalla , you only have to ask.”

His voice is still thick with sleep, but there’s a gravelly edge to it now. One that curls low in my stomach.

“Or,” he adds, eyes dropping to my lips, “you could keep gawking while I take care of what you woke up.”

My jaw drops. He didn’t just say that.

Heat floods my face. My ears. Probably my entire body.

“I wasn’t… I wasn’t gawking,” I stammer, scrambling for dignity and failing miserably.

He raises an eyebrow, not buying it for a second.

“No?” he teases. “Because it sure looked like you were remembering how good I make you feel… how I make you come.”

I make a strangled sound and snatch a pillow, flinging it at his head.

He laughs. Actual full-on laughs, and I hate how much I feel it. In my chest. In between my thighs.

“I hate you,” I mutter, collapsing back onto the bed and throwing an arm over my face.

“Funny,” he says. He seems closer now, like he’s moved beside the bed, “because your body doesn’t agree.”

And damn him, he’s right.

I grab another pillow and hurl it straight at his smug face.

It lands with a satisfying thwump , but he only laughs harder.

I kick off the blankets and bolt from the bed toward the bathroom.

“Take your time,” he calls after me, all sinful amusement. “But if you need help reaching the hard-to-get places…”

I slam the bathroom door behind me before he can finish that sentence, but I can still hear the smirk in his voice echoing through the timber. Worse, I feel it… everywhere.

Pressing my back against the wall, I try to breathe.

My body is on fire.

My brain is scrambled.

That man is the worst kind of temptation. The kind that makes me forget he’s still firmly on my shit list, and that talking to him was not part of the plan.

Argh .

I need a cold shower. A long one.