Page 52 of Mine Again (Mafia Bride #2)

Chapter Fifty-One

Isabella

I ’m too much of a chicken to take a cold shower.

Let someone else suffer through that kind of torture. I’m Sicilian. Warmth runs in my blood. We scoff at anything cold unless it comes in a cone and melts down your fingers.

I stay under the hot water longer than I need to. Letting it scald. Letting it purge. Hoping it will melt away the confusion, the ache, the heat I wish I didn’t feel.

But it doesn’t.

Luca’s words from dinner slip into my mind on repeat.

“Your father… he made me swear not to tell you.”

“I’d have agreed to anything to stop your father from finding you another husband.”

Last night, I was too wrecked to hear him, too wrung out to let his meaning sink in. But now?

Now, it lands with the full weight of understanding.

That deal he made… it saved me.

If he hadn’t, I would have been married off by now.

Probably to someone like Conti, the cold, ruthless enforcer my father had picked for Mari. Thank God for my sister’s feeble stomach at the altar. If she hadn’t thrown up mid-ceremony, she and Mateo would never have had a chance.

The thought of being married to someone like Conti makes my skin crawl.

I actually shudder, the kind that starts at the base of your spine and rattles through your bones.

Even the hot water pounding down on me does nothing to stop the chill that creeps in as the images form in my mind.

Cold hands. Colder eyes. A marriage built on fear and obedience.

No, I’d take the heartbreak Luca left me with a thousand times over.

It doesn’t make his silence, the distance, or the grief I experienced any easier, but for the first time, I see the price he paid too.

He wanted to be with me, to stay in touch; of that I’m sure.

He suffered just as much, perhaps even more.

While he had the reassurance that I was okay, watching me through the camera in my bedroom must have been its own kind of torture.

And I didn’t exactly make it easy for him. There were times I pushed, trying to provoke a reaction by showing him exactly what he was missing.

Seeing what you desire, what you love, and knowing you can’t have it. Not for days. Not for weeks. For who knows how long. Pure torture.

I imagine standing in Luca’s place, dealing with my father’s demand, knowing he would auction me off like cattle to the highest bidder if I didn’t agree to his terms. If I had been the one forced to make that call… I would have done the same.

That realization knocks something loose in me. A knot of anger I’ve been holding onto since the moment he vanished starts to unwind.

The tightness in my chest eases a little. For the first time in years, I breathe like it doesn’t hurt to do so.

It isn’t forgiveness. Not yet.

But it’s something close to understanding.

After my shower, I dress quickly. It’s kind of fun rummaging through a closet full of clothes I didn’t pick. It’s like unboxing a surprise curated just for me.

Luca chose well.

Soft fabrics. Simple lines. Dresses in cuts I naturally gravitate toward. He paid attention to what I like, to what makes me feel like me . Everything is comfortable but still put-together, like something I would have chosen myself if I’d had the freedom.

And then there’s the lingerie. That, he definitely didn’t choose purely for comfort.

Delicate lace in colors that complement my skin, cut in ways that leave little to the imagination. Every piece is sensual without being loud, luxurious without being showy. He didn’t just pick what he thought looked good. He picked what would make me feel beautiful… and his alone.

It makes me strangely vulnerable, exposed in a way I hadn’t expected. His thoughtfulness reaches deeper than I’m ready for, brushing against places that haven’t been touched in five years.

Not wanting to get all sappy, I pull on a pair of warm leggings, thick socks, and a soft long-sleeved cotton dress. I twist my damp hair into a loose braid and head out in search of Luca.

I need answers. And coffee. Not necessarily in that order.

Too much has been left unsaid, and I’m done sitting in silence. I don’t know what I’ll say when I find him. I only know I need to.

When I ran from the bedroom yesterday, I barely noticed anything around me. My only focus was finding the front door.

Was that really only a day ago?

So much has happened… no, that’s not true. Not much has actually happened, but a lot has been revealed.

It seems like years have passed, and in a way, they have.

In the light of a new day and feeling more emotionally grounded, I’m eager to explore.

I walk down the hallway. It opens into a wide, airy living space filled with natural light. Floor-to-ceiling windows let the morning pour in like gold, brightening everything it touches.

Hmm. The weather seems happier today too. The heavy gray clouds are a thing of the past. Let’s hope it stays that way for a while.

I keep going, taking it all in. The walls are whitewashed stone, softened with pale linen curtains and warm timber beams overhead. A leather couch, oversized armchairs, and a chunky coffee table stacked with books anchor the lounge area. Everything is open, breezy, and calm.

It feels lived-in, comfortable, and strangely inviting.

It reminds me of something. Of us .

Of the little cottage on Luca’s parents’ vineyard, our hideaway, where we used to meet in secret. That airy, open space tucked between rows of grapevines, where the world was far away and time always seemed to slow.

This house is its grown-up twin; larger, more refined, but echoing the same warmth, the same quiet intimacy.

Only now, the furniture is more expensive, the walls more polished, the edges a little sharper. Like him.

And just like back then, I feel safe here… even with everything between us still fractured.

The more I look, the more I see his touch everywhere.

Every corner is carefully considered. There’s no clutter. Nothing is out of place. The cushions are arranged in a way that looks casual but clearly isn’t. Even the throw over the arm of the couch is folded with a quiet purpose.

It has Luca’s energy. Steady. Controlled. Intense beneath the surface.

The space flows easily from the lounge to the dining room to the kitchen. Distinct zones, yet open to one another.

The blessed scent of rich, dark-roast espresso pulls me toward the kitchen like a gentle invitation.

Oh, how can I be angry with this man when he’s already made espresso? Especially since he doesn’t drink coffee himself.

A thin curl of steam rises from a ceramic cup resting on a warming tray. He must have prepared it while I was in the shower. Beside it, there’s a small jug of milk.

He remembered the way I like it.

The gesture is small, but it roots itself deep in my chest. He didn’t just stock the kitchen; he thought about me, about what I would need, about what would make me feel at home here.

I take a sip and sigh, content. This is the first proper coffee I’ve had in days. As nice as the Waldorf in Vegas was, they didn’t make espresso like an Italian.

Cup in hand, I pass through the living area and spot a half-open door at the end of the hallway. Something about it draws me in.

His office.

I step inside, half expecting to find him there, typing furiously, immersed in whatever secrets he guards. But the room is empty. The wall of monitors is dark. The chair is pushed back. No sound, no glow.

Still, the air carries his presence. Everything here hums with precision and order. The placement of the desk. The sleek angles. The silence. It’s like walking into a mind that never stops calculating.

I’m about to turn and leave when something catches my eye.

A photograph on the wall.

It’s large and framed, placed slightly off-center. Not meant to be the first thing you notice, but impossible to miss once you do.

It’s our photo.

Our unofficial engagement picture. The one taken on that summer night when we danced barefoot under fairy lights. We were laughing, holding each other like the world belonged to us… like the future was a promise we had already sealed.

It’s my favorite photo of us. I used to keep it beside my bed and stare at it every night, until a few weeks before my eighteenth birthday, when Father came into my room, saw it, and told me to put it away.

We were so happy that night. So sure of what was coming. But a year later, everything had crumbled.

I step away from the picture, suddenly too full of memories. The past suddenly seems to cling to every corner of this house, ghosts wrapped in morning sunlight.

I leave the office and keep walking, following a faint hum that gets louder as I near the back of the house. A thick door muffles whatever is behind it, but when I open it, the sound crashes into me.

Music, loud and pulsing.

The room is clearly soundproofed. No wonder I didn’t hear it earlier.

Then I see him… jumping rope in low-slung workout shorts.

Every muscle is on display. His chest rises and falls with the effort. His arms flex with each rotation of the rope. Shoulders, abs, the V-cut of his hips disappearing beneath his shorts…

Madonna mia.

Every inch of his body gleams with sweat. The sunlight pouring through the high windows catches on his skin, turning him golden and slick.

He doesn’t look real. He looks sculpted. Wild. Carved from heat and hunger… or maybe that’s me, burning as I watch him.

Seriously, I swear my lungs forget their job.

My mouth goes dry. My thighs clench without permission. A flush creeps up the back of my neck and settles low in my belly, deep and throbbing.

I need to look away. But I don’t. This is too good to miss.

My fingers itch to reach out and trace the lines of sweat across his skin. I want to press my palm flat against his chest and feel the rhythm of his heart beneath it.

He moves like the rope is an extension of him. Fast. Controlled. Effortless. Single jumps. Doubles. Crosses. Side swings. His rhythm shifts easily, fluid and sure, as if he were born for this.

The rope flicks, snaps, glides. He doesn’t miss a beat. His damp hair is pushed back, revealing the sharp line of his jaw and the unrelenting focus in his eyes.

I’ve never seen anyone look this good working out. Not in real life. Not in movies. He’s a contained storm in motion. Beautiful. Fierce. Impossible to look away from .

And then I focus on something else.

The tattoos.

They cover his chest, his arms, his shoulders. Ink and shadows.

When we parted, the only mark he had was the De Marco crest. A rite of passage. A symbol of blood and loyalty. Now, it’s a single note in a larger story, one he has written across his skin.

He spins into a final set, chest heaving, rope snapping at the floor. The music fades.

His eyes find mine.

A slow grin spreads across his face. Cocky. Unbothered. Entirely too pleased with himself.

“Enjoying the show?” he asks, grabbing a bottle of water from the bench and gulping half of it without breaking eye contact.

I open my mouth, but my throat is too dry to speak. That grin of his deepens, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. Which, of course, he does.

He lets the silence stretch to make me squirm, then says wickedly, “I usually work out in the afternoon, but I had to blow off steam after waking up to you watching me in my morning glory.”

Well, I’d like to deny I did that. But I can’t.

Heat flares across my cheeks, and my brain scrambles for something to say. Anything to tilt the balance back in my favor.

But then he starts walking toward me. Slow. Unhurried. Lethal in his focus.

I’m not sure where to look first. His eyes, which are dark and locked on mine, or his still glistening chest and the tattoos drawing my gaze like a magnet.

Up close, he’s even more overwhelming.

I step back on instinct, and he smiles like that’s the exact reaction he was hoping for. My pulse thunders in my ears as he closes the distance between us, every step a slow unraveling of my will.

“You keep looking at me like that, farfalla ,” he murmurs, his voice a slow stroke of velvet, “and I’ll have to skip the cool-down and go another round.”