Page 57 of Mine Again (Mafia Bride #2)

Chapter Fifty-Six

Isabella

I make a beeline for the front door. My eyes burn from crying, and my skin is flushed from everything that just happened.

At the cupboard, I grab the jacket, hat, and shoes Luca placed there for me. He’s always so prepared, as if he knows when I’ll need to run.

I pull them on quickly, wincing as the stiff leather scrapes against the blisters I earned yesterday from walking too far in shoes that didn’t fit. But I ignore the discomfort. It’s just one more pain layered over others that cut much deeper.

My fingers tremble as I press my hand to the scanner beside the door. The lock clicks open, and I step outside.

The February air hits me like ice water. I welcome the sting.

At least this is real. Cold and biting, honest in a way nothing else seems to be right now.

The wind pulls at my hair. The sunlight brushes my cheekbones with faint warmth. These things don’t lie. They can’t be manipulated.

Without hesitating, I take the path I found yesterday, each step pounding with frustration, confusion, and hurt.

Not even an hour ago, I was in the shower, beginning to understand Luca. And in the gym, I felt the weight of his pain .

We started talking about butterflies, and then I was falling apart. Again.

How did I go from tracing his tattoos, feeling warm and more than a little turned on, to this tangled mess in my chest?

I can’t keep up.

I’m almost afraid to have another conversation with Luca. Every time we speak, more truths emerge. How much more can there be?

And more importantly, how much more can I take?

I reach the archery range I discovered yesterday on my second loop around the island.

It’s hard to believe it’s only been twenty-four hours since I last ran out of that house needing space. The soreness in my legs and the blisters on my heels won’t let me forget it, though.

Too tired for another aimless walk, I head to the bench at the opening of the range and sit down.

I stare at the empty target ahead, wishing I had a bow in my hand and arrows to fire. Not to hit the center, though I’m pretty good at it these days, but more to aim at something outside my own thoughts.

Archery was the one thing I kept doing after Luca disappeared, the only thing Father didn’t object to. It helped me breathe when everything else seemed to be closing in. It brought me back to the present when my mind tried to drag me under.

I draw my knees up onto the bench, wrap my arms around them, and rest my chin on them. My gaze drifts across the clearing, really taking it in for the first time.

The open stretch of grass. A set of three targets at the far end. The hush of the forest pressing in around the space.

To the right of the target, half-concealed beneath the wide canopy of a large tree, I spot a statue.

And it’s awfully familiar.

It couldn’t be. No way.

Curious, I rise slowly from the bench, my legs stiff, and start toward it.

The grass muffles my steps as I cross the range, past the target, until I reach the tree.

Up close, the statue of the archer girl is even more striking. And it’s exactly as I remember it.

I first saw her in a book when I was fourteen.

A single black-and-white photo tucked between pages about classical sculpture.

She was poised and elegant, her body caught in that perfect moment of tension as she drew the bow, aiming at something out of frame.

There was strength in her stance, but also grace. Confidence.

I must have stared at that picture for hours.

It made archery look effortless. Beautiful. Like power and control could exist in the same breath.

That was the moment I wanted to try it for myself.

And I did. We did. Luca and I. It became our thing after that.

On my fifteenth birthday, he gave me the statue as a present.

He never told me how he tracked it down, only smirked like it was obvious. But it shouldn’t have surprised me. If I loved something, Luca always found a way to give it to me, no matter how obscure. No matter how impossible.

We had our first kiss in front of this statue.

I remember the way his hand trembled ever so slightly as he touched my cheek. The way his eyes searched mine, as if asking for permission even though we both already knew the answer. The air was thick with summer heat, and nothing had ever felt so electric. So right.

Later that year, when we made the little cottage on Luca’s family vineyard our hideaway, we took the statue there. He placed it near the front door so I’d see it the moment I arrived.

She stood like a sentinel, guarding our secret world with her drawn bow and steady aim.

Not that it helped in the end.

I stare at the statue of the archer girl I believed lost.

How is she here?

I saw her get broken.

Soft green moss is growing near the base, but the rest of her is pristine. No leaves are caught in the folds of her dress. No bird droppings or streaks of dirt mar the pale stone.

She’s been cared for.

Luca must have been tending to her, keeping her upright, brushed off, respected.

Like she still meant something.

And just like that, the ache claws its way back up.

Some things should stay gone. But Luca never lets go of the things he loves, not even when they’re shattered.

My pulse stirs, unsure if it’s from confusion or the way old memories suddenly feel fresh again.

I’m so focused on the statue that I don’t hear Luca approach until he’s nearly beside me. The crunch of leaves under his foot pulls me back.

“How do you have this?” I ask without preamble. “I saw De Marco’s men destroy it.”

“You were there the day they discovered our hideaway?” His voice tightens with alarm.

“You know Father confiscated my phone and laptop—”

“Yeah, I watched him come into your room, demanding you hand it over,” he cuts in. “And I was aware you went to get the laptop I left in the cottage, but I didn’t realize it was the day they ransacked everything. That was incredibly dangerous, Isa.”

“I had no way of knowing,” I reply, a tad defensively. “And when I saw the men coming through the vineyard, I left right away. I’m not stupid, Luca. I realized I’d be in deep trouble if they caught me there. So I climbed a tree a few yards away and hid until they left.”

The memories of that day replay like an unwelcome movie I never wanted to see again.

“It was awful. They upended everything, clearly searching for something and destroying it all in the process. Then they set the cottage on fire.”

“They were hunting for clues. Trying to figure out where we’d gone. As if I’d ever be that amateurish to leave a trail behind.”

“They pushed this statue over before they went inside,” I say quietly, my fingers brushing the long arc of her hair. “I saw it break.”

The memory tightens my chest. It was like a stab to the heart, one more thing being taken from me. “So how is it here? Especially since it was a one-off?”

“It’s a replica,” he says simply.

“But it looks exactly like the original.”

“I hacked into the artist’s computer,” he admits without remorse. “Downloaded every photo, every sketch he had. Then I commissioned a Canadian sculptor to recreate it. Because I knew how much you loved it.”

Of course he did.

I already suspected that’s why the statue is here. And if the original had still existed, I have no doubt Luca would have moved heaven and earth to bring it back to me.

This devotion of his is unwavering. It always has been.

Not only when we were together, but, I realize, even more so in our years apart.

The evidence surrounds me. Not only in grand gestures like this but in the small, almost invisible ones.

The perfectly chosen jacket by the door. The espresso with the right amount of milk. The way the statue is positioned, not as a memory but as a welcome .

Something soft and slow flutters to life in my chest.

I exhale, and it feels different from before. Less like escape, more like surrender. The kind that comes not from giving up but from letting something in.

The tightness behind my ribs eases. The spin in my head slows.

For a moment, everything that’s been clawing at me takes a step back.

And in its place… butterflies.

Not the panicked kind, but the gentle flutter of deeply remembering everything we were.

“Now,” Luca says, nodding toward the bench, “I brought two compound bows and a quiver full of arrows. ”

I follow his gaze. Sure enough, the equipment is neatly laid out, gleaming in the soft light.

“Let’s see if you can beat me these days.”

We walk back to the bench, a small but genuine smile tugging at my lips.

I’m excited. Luca and I have always been competitive with target practice.

“Well,” I say, reaching for one of the bows, “since you’ve been watching me for years, and apparently not only in my bedroom, you must have seen how deadly accurate I’ve become.”

His mouth twitches. “Oh, I’ve seen your form. The grouping. Very clean. But I’m not worried.”

I roll my eyes, but the warmth lingers. I’m still not sure how I feel about Luca tracking my every move.

It’s stalkerish. Obsessive. Wrong on so many levels.

And yet… I’ve never felt more seen. Or more wanted.

He grabs the second bow, his fingers inspecting the cams and cables before he tests the draw.

“I’ve been practicing too.” He pulls on an armguard and hands me one, turning toward the target. “Three rounds. Best groupings out of five arrows per round. Closest to center takes the point. First to two wins. Winner gets bragging rights.”

“That’s it?” I cock a brow. “Kind of a weak prize, don’t you think?”

He grins, the slow, confident kind that always meant trouble.

“Fine. If I win, you owe me one truth.”

I fight the smile tugging at my lips. I’ve got a pretty good idea of what he wants to ask. And I’m sure as hell not offering it up for free.

“You’re on. But I’ll be the one asking, because I’m the one winning.”

I nock my first arrow and draw the bowstring, the familiar tension grounding me. The storm inside me settles. The fluttering fades. All that’s left is calm focus.

I really needed this. And like always, Luca knew.

So easily, we fall back into something we used to be.

Something that still fits.