Page 72 of Mine Again (Mafia Bride #2)

Chapter Seventy-One

Isabella

L eaving the house behind feels like a long, slow goodbye.

As we walk toward the front door, I keep glancing over my shoulder, trying to memorize everything.

The soft throw on the couch. The pictures of the vineyard where our hideaway was.

The row of books Luca stocked because he knows what I like to read.

All the small touches he added just for me. For us.

I’ve only been here a few days, but it’s ridiculous how quickly I’ve grown attached. Maybe because Luca built this place for me, for our life together. Every detail is intentional, chosen with me in mind.

And now we’re leaving it behind with no promise we’ll come back. No promise it will even be here if we do.

Luca says this island is untraceable, but what if Hale or the authorities do find it and just blow it up?

A cold ripple works its way through my stomach, tightening with every step.

My fingers twitch against Luca’s, wanting to grip him harder but afraid he’ll notice the tremor.

I breathe slowly through my nose, forcing my lungs to keep a steady rhythm.

His hand is warm and sure around mine. He’s my rock, my anchor.

Whatever waits ahead, I’m with Luca, and that’s all that matters .

We step outside into the dark. The air is cool, damp with the lingering breath of the sea. Luca lets go of my hand briefly to secure the house. Locks slide into place, alarms beeping in readiness.

Then he takes my hand again, his thumb rubbing slowly over my knuckles as we head for the path leading to the hangar where his helicopter waits.

Our footsteps crunch over the gravel. Luca never lets go, his grip steady and grounding. He lights the way with a flashlight, the beam cutting through the shadows in narrow slices.

The darkness feels oppressive, heavy and watchful, the kind that makes the hair on the back of my neck lift. Somewhere in the trees, something rustles, and I tell myself it’s only the wind.

I breathe easier when the hangar emerges ahead, its metal skin gleaming faintly in the moonlight. Inside, the air smells faintly of oil and metal. Luca deposits our two bags in the back of the sleek black helicopter waiting there.

I remember catching sight of it through the window on my first day here, wondering who pilots it. That seems like months ago now, though only days have passed. So much has happened since.

The helicopter itself is all sharp edges and smooth curves, the body gleaming as though it’s been polished for this moment. The glass cockpit reflects the dim light Luca switched on, the blades poised above like a sleeping predator’s wings.

I glance around the hangar, noticing for the first time how enclosed it is. There’s only one large garage-style door, and beyond it, dense trees block any direct path to the sky.

“How are you going to get this thing out of here?” I ask.

Luca’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he picks up something that looks like an oversized remote control and presses a sequence of buttons. A low hum fills the space, followed by a deep mechanical groan.

Slowly, the roof begins to split open. Panels slide back to reveal the night above, a velvet-black expanse scattered with thousands of stars.

For a moment, I stand there, head tilted back, enjoying the view. If Hale wasn’t trying to frame Luca for a heinous cybercrime, and we weren’t on a mission to clear The Venom’s name and reputation, this would be quite romantic.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Luca watching me, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

I gesture upward to the open roof. “It’s like stepping into a James Bond film. Only I’m not a spectator but part of the mission.”

“Then I suppose that makes me Bond,” he says with a slow grin. “Hale’s the villain… and you, Isabella, are my Bond girl.”

“If I’m going to be a Bond girl, I’ll need one of those ridiculously suggestive names.”

His eyes warm with mischief. “With you, farfalla, the name would have to be far too wicked to say out loud in public.”

“Like?”

His grin deepens. “Like something that would make you blush every time I whispered it in your ear.”

“You can’t think of a name, can you?” I smirk.

He looks at me, narrowing his eyes. “Of course I can.”

I lift an eyebrow in challenge.

He taps his fingers on his thighs, pondering.

“Izzy Vixen, teasing, with a wink toward trouble. Or how about Isabella Vice? That sounds sophisticated and wicked at the same time.”

I scrunch up my nose.

“They’re both terrible. But points for coming up with them in under a minute.”

He leans in close enough for his breath to brush my ear.

“I guess what matters is that Bond always gets the villain… usually with a little help from his girl.”

The way he says it is low and gravelly, and the knot in my stomach tightens, but for an entirely different reason now. My pulse trips over itself, and for a moment the shadows around us seem less heavy.

Still, the unease clings, reminding me that whatever this is, we are stepping into something far bigger than the island we’re leaving behind.

“In that case, I wish the movie was already over and the credits were rolling.”

“Trust me, you wouldn’t want to skip to the ending. You’d miss the best parts.”

He offers his hand, and I take it, letting him help me into the passenger seat. He leans in, brushing a quick kiss over my lips before reaching for the harness.

His movements are precise and deliberate as he adjusts the straps, checking twice that they’re neither too loose nor too tight. His fingertips graze my collarbone in the process, and even through the layers of fabric, his touch burns like a quiet brand.

When he steps around the nose of the helicopter, my eyes follow him. The focused line of his jaw. The unhurried, controlled way he moves, like he was born knowing how to command any space he’s in.

He’s a man of many talents, and now I can add helicopter pilot to that list.

“We’re not flying in this to Tangier, are we?” I ask, the question sounding ridiculous even to my own ears. But until Las Vegas, I had never left Sicily, and I was unconscious for the trip to this island. How would I know?

“No, farfalla . We’re flying to the mainland. My jet is parked there.”

I blink at him. “You’ve got a jet?”

“ We do, actually. Because what’s mine is yours. Remember? We’re married.”

My heart stumbles. Swoon.

“And is there a pilot for that, or are you flying that too?”

He smirks and hands me the headset.

“Are you serious?” I stare at him, shaking my head.

Who is this man?

Maybe he’s more James Bond than he lets on.

“Is there anything you can’t do?”

He fastens his harness and starts flicking switches, his lips curving. “ Stay away from you.”

I grin. How could I not? We might be flying straight into the dark unknown, but with Luca, my smiles are never far away.

“So you’re going to fly us to Tangier? How long will that take?”

“Actually, I’m flying us to Gibraltar, in case Hale or the authorities manage to track us. From there, we’ll take a speedboat across the Strait to Tangier. We should be there in about twelve hours,” he says, flicking another switch, his gaze never leaving the controls.

The thought of being hunted, of someone close enough to track us, is like ice under my skin.

The blades above us begin to spin, their slow rhythmic churn building into a rapid thrum that vibrates through the seat and up my spine. Even with the headset in place, I can hear the deep mechanical hum.

A tight flutter stirs in my stomach. I’ve never flown in a helicopter before, at least not that I can remember, though it must have been how I arrived on the island. The sensation is strange, part thrill and part unease, but neither is strong enough to push past the weight of what lies ahead.

Beside me, Luca’s hands move over the controls with quick, confident precision. His gaze sweeps across the instrument panel, checking readings, adjusting levers, and flicking switches in a rhythm that seems instinctive.

He doesn’t hesitate once, and the small crease of focus between his brows tells me his mind’s already a step ahead of whatever comes next.

I follow the movements of his hands, the way his forearms flex with each adjustment, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the unshakable ease in his posture, like this machine is simply another part of him.

The quiet certainty he carries is magnetic, and it sends a warm rush through me that I try very hard to ignore. His confidence is such a turn-on, but now is really not the time to get distracted by that.

He glances at me, his voice coming through the headset, startling me. “Ready?”

I give him a thumbs-up, my throat too tight for words .

He turns back to the control panel, fingers wrapping firmly around the cyclic.

The next second, the helicopter lifts smoothly, and the hangar pad drops away beneath us. I grip the edges of my seat, my fingers tightening as the distance between us and the ground grows.

The trees surrounding the hangar close in like a dark crown, their tops swaying faintly in the rotor wash. Beyond them, the shoreline curves into view, a pale ribbon where moonlight touches the restless water.

We hover for a moment, suspended between earth and sky, and my gaze drifts past the treetops to where the house sits. From here, it’s dark, looking as if it’s gone to sleep, its windows blank and still. Only the faint outline of its roof catches the moonlight.

A twinge flares in my chest. I’ve only spent a few nights in this house, but it quickly began to feel like my new home.

Luca presses a few buttons, and the roof of the hangar slides shut, sealing away the world we’ve just left behind.

We angle toward the open sea, the hum of the engine settling into a constant roar.

I keep my eyes on Luca, studying the way the glow from the instrument panel traces the sharp planes of his face.

There’s something so reassuring about his complete control, the way he navigates the dark as if it bends to him.

Despite what we’re facing, I feel safe.

He looks over at me, just for a moment, his eyes catching mine. A small, steady smile curves his mouth, and it’s enough to loosen the tight coil in my chest a little.

Luca’s island slips farther and farther behind, its shape softening until it’s only a shadow on the horizon. I press my forehead lightly against the glass, my breath fogging the surface.

It’s strange how much of me wants to turn back, when this place felt like a prison when I first arrived.

I don’t know when or if I’ll see it again.

I just hope I do.