Page 73 of Mine Again (Mafia Bride #2)

Chapter Seventy-Two

Isabella

L uca eases the speedboat into Tangier in the late afternoon, slipping into the harbor with minimal fuss.

The city rises in stacked layers, whitewashed walls clinging to the hillside, minarets spiking the pale sky. Above the maze of streets, the heat shimmers in the falling light.

We changed on the boat, trading our travel clothes for something more local and less likely to draw attention. My scarf covers most of my hair, fluttering lightly in the breeze.

Luca looks like he belongs here, dark shirt, worn jacket, nothing that would catch a second glance. I try to copy the ease of his movements, but my spiking pulse keeps me from pulling it off.

The whole trip seemed too smooth.

No problems at the airport. No trouble getting the boat. No delays of any kind.

Luca’s calm has been absolute, his competence carrying us from one step to the next. In Gibraltar he even thought ahead, buying enough supplies so we won’t have to go out for days. Sometimes I wonder if there’s anything he doesn’t plan for.

I should feel safe. Instead, I’m unsettled .

The stillness seems loaded, like a breath being held.

We tie off at a quiet stretch of pier where no one lingers. Luca steps out first, scanning the dock before taking our bags from me and putting them at his feet. When he offers me his hand to help me disembark, I take it, and his fingers close around mine with quiet strength.

I pick up my bag, its weight settling over my shoulder. My gaze skims the edges of everything. Two fishermen glance up and then look away, and there’s a battered truck at the far end of the pier that hasn’t moved since we approached.

We walk in step, Luca’s arm brushing mine every few strides. The air smells of salt and diesel, with a thread of something warm, cinnamon maybe, drifting from the market inland. Every few seconds he glances at me, as if taking my measure. I answer with a small nod each time so he knows I’m fine.

Each look is quick, almost casual, but it lands like a steady hand at my back. I tell myself not to lean on it, not to relax, yet part of me does.

A narrow street swallows us, shadows stretching long between buildings. Luca’s attention settles on a cluster of men outside a shuttered café. Mine catches the glint of a phone in one man’s hand until we turn the corner and lose sight of him.

Every sound pulls at me; boots on stone, a shout from somewhere above, the clink of metal out of sight. Adrenaline keeps me upright despite the fog of sleeplessness.

Halfway down the next street, I catch my foot on the edge of a broken cobblestone and stumble.

Luca’s hand catches my elbow before I can fall.

He doesn’t comment, just steadies me for a beat before letting go.

I straighten my posture, tightening my grip on the bag.

I’m not going to make this harder for him.

Luca’s hand presses lightly on my back as we navigate a tight bend in the street. I fall into his rhythm, adjusting my steps so I stay on his right, giving him the advantage to shield me when needed.

When the path narrows again, his fingers find my elbow, guiding me ahead. He never touches me longer than necessary, but I feel the constant thread of it.

“Two more blocks,” Luca whispers into my ear.

I nod, pulse steady but senses sharp. And yet, the longer we walk without incident, the more my muscles relax. If I didn’t know better, I’d think nothing here could threaten us.

We take an even narrower alley, its cobblestones slick, the walls close enough for my shoulder to brush flaking plaster.

The weight of the bag shifts and bites into my shoulder.

Before I can adjust it, Luca’s hand slips under the strap to take the weight for me while I settle it back in place.

Again, no comment, just a glance that asks if I’m good.

I give him the smallest smile I can manage.

Luca slows, his gaze lifting to the rooftops. I follow and see it too, a faint scuff in the dust along a gutter, newer than the rest. My grip on my bag strap tightens, but I say nothing.

We continue on and stop at a weathered blue door recessed into an archway, half-hidden behind a stiff, faded rug. Luca listens first, his hand hovering near the timber.

“Clear,” he says, though the word carries a coil of readiness.

Inside, the air is cool, smelling faintly of sea and old stone. Light filters through high, narrow slits, dust drifting in slow suspension.

This is only the first barrier. Beyond a plain interior door is the real defense, a double-walled, windowless room, its reinforced frame buried under chipped plaster.

Luca unlocks it with a key hidden in his watch strap. The second door opens into a smaller, stripped space with a waist-high steel locker bolted into the far wall. The air is different here, like the room is holding its breath.

“Is it always this quiet?” I whisper.

“When it’s untouched,” he says, crouching at the lock. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

The locker opens with a click. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, is a matte-black tower unit.

“This is it.” His voice holds something close to reverence.

I brace it while he checks it over .

He slips the whole thing into a plain, scuffed duffel bag he’d brought, the kind that could hold anything from laundry to groceries. A couple of the food items we picked up earlier go on top, masking the shape. Even I’d believe it was just an ordinary bag if I didn’t know better.

Instead of heading back to the street, Luca takes me deeper into the building, down a narrow hallway that smells of dust and motor oil.

At the far end, a small steel door opens into a windowless storage space. Against the back wall, under a sun-faded tarp, sits a scooter the color of old charcoal. Its frame is scratched, but the tires appear new.

“You had this here the whole time?” I ask.

“I always leave myself a way out,” he says, folding the tarp. “Cars stand out here. A scooter gets us through streets we can’t reach otherwise.”

He places the duffel bag onto the scooter’s flat floorboard, the narrow platform where his feet rest, securing it with a bungee cord.

He wheels the scooter to a narrow rear exit and pushes the steel door open. Heat and noise spill in at once, the hum of voices, the stutter of engines, the smell of sun-baked stone and aromatic spices.

“You sit behind me. Hold on to me and keep your head down.”

Out in the alley, he climbs onto the seat and I follow, sliding my arms around his waist.

“Hold on,” he calls over his shoulder, and I tighten my grip.

We merge onto the street, and the city folds around us, market stalls blurring past, scooters weaving between cars, the scent of bread, spices, and salt carried on the breeze.

For a moment, it’s almost like we are just another pair of strangers in the crowd, not two people carrying something worth killing for.