Page 35 of Broken Mafia Bride
A laugh splutters out of me, and I hurriedly slap a palm over my mouth even though it’s too late. She shoots me a dirty look. “You’re no longer my best friend.”
“I’m sorry, Si,” I laugh. “How didn’t you know you were so bad? You colored outside the lines back when you used to help Noemi with her art homework.”
She groans. “They’re never going to let me join the moms’ association, and my babies won’t have any friends.”
“You’re being dramatic,” I wave her off, moving over to the showcase to get her a cinnamon roll. “Noemi used to threaten tofeed the other kids to the boogie man when they came up to her, but she’s still managed to get friends.”
The redhead pulls a face. “I’m sorry, Ariel, but your kid’s friend thinks he’s Batman. I don’t think this is the moral lesson I want to hear right now.”
“Shut up.” I grin, passing the pastry over.
She rubs her hands together gleefully, tongue swiping over her lips in delight, before she grabs the roll and takes one large bite. “Oh god!” she moans. “Oh god.”
“Does your husband know you’re cheating on him with cinnamon rolls?”
“What Reed doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
Just then, my phone alarm goes off. “Shit, I need to get Noemi,” I mutter, already untying my apron and snatching my purse from the locker. “Alex, I’m leaving!”
“Bye.” He waves at me distractedly.
“I’m going to leave you here to drown your embarrassment with pastries and a latte,” I tell Sienna.
She continues to moan over every bite of the cinnamon roll. Laughing, I rush out of the bakery. The school is eight blocks from where I work, which is another reason why working at Olive’s bakery is the perfect job.
I never want to be stuck in traffic—or anywhere else—and constantly picking up my kid late. At school, I was the one always left behind, sitting alone on the playground, trying not to cry, knowing my father had forgotten I existed. Again.
I shake my head to clear that memory. Regardless of all the plans and discussions Raffaele and I made, I don’t know what kind of father he’d be… Or if he’s even still interested in having a kid. I have no idea what direction his life has gone in, and not even all my obsessive internet sleuthing has managed to give me meaningful information.
It was easy to find out how Isabella was doing. Her Instagram is still active—or at least, I’ve been stalking it through other people’s accounts ever since I got my memory back. Outings, shopping trips, dinner dates. All smiles, like nothing has changed.
Meanwhile, our side of Chicago is burning.
I don’t know the full details, and I guess the mafia families are doing their best to cover it up, but I’ve seen at least three sources that have confirmed that our territories haven’t been safe in a while. I suspect that it still has a lot to do with the Gagliardi and Montanari family feud—furthermore proving I made the right choice by staying put. No way in hell am I taking my daughter into that mess.
I don’t want Noemi caught in the middle of that feud. I’m not delusional enough to think that just because she’s half Gagliardi and half Montanari, her presence will somehow unite both sides. If Edoardo and my father are still the men I know, they’ll turn my daughter into a pawn, each side pulling at her like dogs fighting over the last piece of meat.
My biggest fear isn’t the past catching up to me—it’s the moment my daughter looks me in the eye and asks where her father is.
I’ve thought about taking the easy way out. Letting Marco slip into the role, pretending the pieces fit neatly into some perfect picture. It would be easier. Safer. But it wouldn’t be true. And the day Noemi finds out, she’ll wonder why I didn’t trust her with the truth. Why I let a lie grow roots under her feet.
I can’t do that to her.
I know what it feels like to live inside someone else’s silence. My father fed me sugar-coated lies and half-truths until I stopped recognizing my own reflection. I won’t pass that legacy on.
I just pray I have a little more time before her questions start. Before her eyes turn to mine and ask for an answer I don’t know how to give.
“I’m here to pick up Noemi Sanna,” I say, breath still shallow from the rush over.
The secretary looks up, adjusting her oversized glasses. “She was already picked up… about ten minutes ago.”
The ground shifts beneath me.
“What?” My voice cracks. “Picked up bywho?”
She blinks. “Her father.”
Everything inside me freezes.
