Page 74 of Mine Again (Mafia Bride #2)

Chapter Seventy-Three

Luca

T he city thins around us in layers as I take us toward the far outskirts, the part of Tangier most visitors never see.

First go the polished shopfronts and café terraces, replaced by narrow lanes and paint-faded houses. Then those give way to half-built shells and abandoned lots, the kind of streets where the asphalt’s cracked and the only company is the wind in the scrub.

The scooter’s engine hums steadily under us, Isa’s arms wrapped tight around my waist, her head turned to keep the wind from her face.

She’s been quiet for most of the trip, probably to let me focus on what I had to do. Neither of us has slept in over twenty-four hours. I’d hoped she might nap on the plane, but she sat beside me in the cockpit, alert.

She’s running on adrenaline, but it’s fading. I noticed it earlier when she stumbled more than once. She hasn’t complained or asked to stop. She just carries on, following my lead.

That quiet support is worth more than I can put into words. I hate that she has to go through this, but there’s no other way. I’d never leave her behind. Not ever again .

I don’t think I could survive it.

Having her back with me, even for a few days, has shown me how empty the years without her really were. I told myself I was fine, that I could live with the distance while I built a life for us and waited for the right moment to claim her back.

I was lying.

One touch, one look from her, the feel of her fingers curling in my hair, and I remember exactly what it’s like to breathe.

She’s not just part of my life, she’s the center of it. Everything else is noise. The ferocity with which I love this woman sometimes scares even me.

Hale will never get his hands on her. She’s mine, and I’ll protect her with everything I have.

The streetlamps are few and far between here, some flickering, others dead, leaving stretches of darkness between pools of pale light. The road is getting thinner, weeds pushing through the seams. I slow, weaving around a fallen branch, and Isa shifts with me, her grip steady.

Ahead, the outline of the villa I bought a couple of years ago rises out of the gloom. Two stories, white plaster dulled to gray, shutters sagging on bent hinges. The front gate hangs crooked, streaked with rust.

When we stop, she slides off the seat, eyes taking in the cracked wall and weeds clawing at the path.

“This is it?”

I nod, lifting the duffel bag from the footboard.

Isa crosses her arms with a skeptical expression.

“It doesn’t exactly scream safe.”

“That’s the point.” I carry the bag to the door. “From the street it looks abandoned, ready to fall in on itself. No one lingers. Not squatters, not curious kids. I’ve made sure of it.”

At the entry, I lift a strip of hazard tape for us to duck under, careful not to tear it from the frame.

A fake warning notice flaps against my shoulder as I push the door open, leaving it hanging where it was.

The bullet casings scattered along the threshold stay in place.

From the street, nothing will appear different.

“How?” she asks, staying outside the doorway, studying the structure.

“By making it look like trouble. Like it’s going to fall down any minute.”

I point to the tape and the notice.

“I also let a rumor spread that the last owner crossed the wrong people and was found floating in the harbor. People here avoid that kind of history.”

Her brow furrows. “So it won’t collapse on us? This is a safe place to stay?”

“It is.” I set the bag down and glance at her. “Shatterproof glass on the windows, steel-cored doors, a crawl space under the kitchen that leads to a neighbor’s courtyard, a retractable ladder off the upstairs balcony, and a false wall in the garden that opens to a tunnel under the street.”

Her lips twitch but she doesn’t smile.

“That’s dark.”

“It’s safe,” I correct.

She still looks doubtful, but after a beat she steps in behind me. I take her hand, and she instinctively shifts closer, her fingers curling around mine, squeezing a little too tight.

I switch on a flashlight, dimming the beam just enough for us to see. Isa turns her head slowly, eyes moving over the space, shoulders tight with trepidation. I guide her toward the staircase at the back of the hall, the air cooler inside with a faint smell of plaster.

Halfway there, I ease her in front of me, keeping my hand at the small of her back for reassurance as she starts up the creaking stairs. She takes each step with care, testing the wood like she expects it to give way.

At the top, she pauses before a door with blistered paint and a warped frame. Isa tries the handle. It doesn’t budge.

She sets her shoulder against it and pushes harder. Nothing.

“I think it’s stuck,” she says, glancing over her shoulder .

“To most people.” I grin.

I run my hand along the wall beside the frame until I find a shallow groove and a recessed panel the size of a matchbox. When I press it, one of three hidden bolts slides free with a muffled thunk. Two more turns of concealed catches and the last lock clicks open.

Isa huffs out a breath, somewhere between impressed and anxious.

“Very James Bond.”

I give her a wink. “Bond wishes he had my skills… and my girl.”

Her answering smile hits me square in the chest. I want to see it on her every single day for the rest of my life. And to do that, I can’t end up behind bars.

Time to beat Hale at his own game.