Page 7 of Mine Again (Mafia Bride #2)

Chapter Six

Isabella

I wake to the soft, golden trickle of sunlight slipping through the curtains. I stretch my arms above my head, the sheets rustling as I breathe in the stillness.

Like every morning, I stare at the ceiling for a while.

Usually it’s to figure out how I’ll spend the day, and that depends on whether Father is around.

Lately, he’s been gone more often, which is a quiet relief to everyone in the house. Being capo and vying for the role of consigliere takes time, effort, and a great deal of maneuvering.

No one misses him. And he certainly doesn’t miss us.

Not even on days like today.

I turn my head to the window, trying to shake off the heaviness already settling inside. I’ve come to hate this day. It’s a cruel reminder of everything that could have been.

The door creaks open, and I glance up and watch Mari tiptoe in. She’s barefoot and grinning like she’s up to something.

“Ah, good. You’re awake.” She laughs softly, launches herself onto the bed, and starts tickling me.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy twenty-second birthday, my dear old, old sister…”

I squirm and laugh, trying to fend her off.

“Brat,” I mutter, pinching her side. She squeals and flops down beside me, still smiling.

“I’ve got something for you,” she says, reaching over the edge of the bed to retrieve a small wrapped bundle she dropped during her dramatic entrance.

“Well, it’s clearly not breakable,” I tease, taking it from her outstretched hands.

It’s soft and flexible, wrapped in floral paper and tied with a simple ribbon. I already have a pretty good idea what it is.

“Open it,” Mari urges, her eyes shining with excitement.

I smile and loosen the ribbon, then tear away the paper.

A swath of deep teal fabric slips into my hands, soft as a sigh. I pause for a moment, my fingers sinking into the delicate folds. I lift it, and it spills open like liquid light, cascading across my lap.

A dress.

And wow. What a dress it is.

Teal silk layered with the sheerest veil of amethyst, so fine it seems to shimmer with every movement.

The bodice wraps gently across the front, the waist gathered.

Long sleeves drift outward in weightless waves, embroidered with delicate gold vines that trail from cuff to shoulder and across the skirt, where tiny amethyst blossoms bloom.

I look up at her, barely able to speak. “You made this?”

Mari shrugs, but her eyes are glowing. “Of course. Do you like it?”

“Like it? I love it,” I whisper. “It’s stunning. This must have taken you ages to make.”

Like me, she can only follow her passion in the quiet moments when Father isn’t in the house and the air is a little easier to breathe. Mamma might suspect what we’re up to, but she chooses to overlook it. Maybe that’s her way of giving us a sliver of freedom, something she never had herself.

“A couple of months,” Mari says, resting her head on my shoulder.

And, as if she’s heard my thoughts, she adds, “I used every chance I had while Father was gone. And when I was staying at the Don’s estate, I had plenty of quiet evenings.

Ella never needed me after dinner. It was wonderful.

No one asked what I was doing. Too bad she ran away. ”

At our father’s suggestion, Mari had been sent to help settle the Don’s new girlfriend into our world. Everyone was buzzing about Gualtiero De Marco finally finding love. And what a whirlwind romance it was.

Ella Rose O’Neil, a tourist from Ireland, had saved his life. Apparently, he fell for her head over heels. Or in our Don’s case, head over Armani loafers.

They spent the rest of her vacation together. Don De Marco even took a few days off. He’d never done that for a woman before, and it caused quite an uproar. That alone showed everyone how serious he was about her.

The only problem was that he never told her who he really was.

So when Ella decided to return home at the end of her vacation, he did what any self-respecting Mafia Don would do. He kidnapped her.

That’s where Mari came in, to help Ella adjust. But Ella wasn’t having it. She tried to escape a few times and finally succeeded a couple of weeks ago. Hence, Mari isn’t needed until Ella is recovered.

“And the fabric?” I ask. “How did you manage to get that?”

“One of the maids owed me a favor,” she says with a proud little smile. “I told her what I needed, and she made it happen.”

“And you used the housekeeper’s sewing machine when no one was looking?”

Mari giggles. “You know me too well.”

She runs her hand slowly over the fabric, her fingers tracing the pattern. Her smile is soft and real, the kind I wish I could see on her face every day.

This, creating something from nothing, makes her come alive. But she has to hide it. In our father’s eyes, creating fashion is beneath us. No daughter of his should be seen holding a needle and thread.

At least he never banned the guitar. That’s the other thing that lights her up .

She plays for hours when Father isn’t around. He tried to push her into piano lessons, convinced it was more appropriate for a daughter of his.

Mari went along with it for a while, but her heart was never in it. Thankfully, Ari took to the piano with genuine passion, and with his youngest daughter playing, Father saw no need to force Mari any longer. One daughter playing ticked off a box in his mind.

I press the gown against my heart. The fabric is cool and soft in my hands.

“I love it,” I say again, smiling as I press a kiss to the top of Mari’s head. “Love, love, love it. I’ll treasure it always.”

I wrap my arms around her, wishing I could shield her from everything coming her way.

“I’ll wear it tonight,” I say. “Or on Saturday for your party. Or both.”

Mari gives a short, broken laugh. “I wish you could. It would be the only bright spot on the day of my funeral.” Her smile falters. “But we both know Father already approved our wardrobe for the engagement party.”

“Stuff him,” I mutter, pulling her tighter against me. “I still don’t get it. Why has he arranged your marriage first when I’m the oldest?”

A voice cuts through the quiet, making us both jump.

“Isn’t that the question of the century?”

Mia springs up from beside the bed, where she must have been crouched and eavesdropping.

“How long have you been there?” Mari gasps, pressing a hand to her chest.

Mia grins. “Long enough. Sneaking in unnoticed is one of my ninja skills.”

“Excellent thing to sharpen,” I reply. You never know when stealth might save you in our world.

“Right?” she smiles and jumps onto the bed to hug me. “Happy birthday, sis.”

I roll my eyes, my smile slipping. I really hate the reminder .

This day used to be the happiest of the year. But for the last five years, all it’s brought is dread.

I take a breath. “So, have your ninja skills uncovered why Father’s orchestrating everything like this?”

Mia pouts, flopping onto the bed beside us. “No. He’s like a vault. I haven’t cracked it… yet.”

Then she glances at Mari, her expression shifting. “There has to be a way out of this. You can’t marry someone like Ronaldo Conti.”

“It’s not like I have a choice,” Mari says, sounding hollow. “This has nothing to do with me. It’s about what’s best for Father, isn’t it?”

“But how can you be so calm?” Mia bursts out. If she were standing, I think she’d stomp her foot.

Mari doesn’t answer right away. She stares straight ahead, her face unreadable.

“I just have to find a way to live with it,” she replies. “Maybe Conti won’t pay me much attention and will be gone a lot. If I’m lucky, he’ll mostly leave me alone. At least I’ll be away from Father. That has to count for something.”

Mia huffs, her jaw clenched. “You’re trading one prison for another. Neither is good.”

Mari’s shoulders sag like the weight she’s been carrying has finally gotten too heavy. She looks down at her hands, her lips quivering.

“Hey, let’s talk about something more upbeat,” I say, trying to shift the mood.

“Yes, good idea,” Mia agrees quickly, taking Mari’s hands in hers. “I’m sorry, sis. I didn’t mean to make you feel worse.”

She turns to me, a little cautious. “Do you think there’ll be a box of chocolates later today?”

I close my eyes as pain slices through my chest. I hadn’t expected that question.

And I don’t know if I can survive the answer.