Page 46 of Broken Mafia Bride
What the?—
That’s when I see Enrico Montanari. I blink, half-convinced I’ve slipped into an alternate reality. The head of the Montanari family is standing in our living room—and no one has a gun drawn.
“What’s going on here?” I ask my father.
His eyes—so identical to mine—meet and hold. “You think I want to be in the same room as Montanari? You think I’m not choking on my pride just standing here? But I’ve done the math, and there’s only one way this ends, son—and it’s not with your tantrums.”
I can’t even remember the last time he called me son. Ever since the whole thing with Giulia, I’ve been nothing but a disappointment. His worst mistake. A stain on the family name. And now, all of a sudden, I’m his son again?
I glance over at Isabella. Isabella avoids my gaze, like she’s trying not to be here either. But she is. And that’s enough to make my blood boil.
“When did you two plan this?” I let out a dry chuckle. “Did you really think ambushing me like this would work? That showing up out of nowhere and claiming this is the only way would magically change my mind about marrying Isabella?”
“Raffaele, please,” Aunt Tilda cries. “Haven’t you had enough?”
I feel for her—her loss, her grief. I’m horrified by what she must be going through, and guilt sits heavy in my chest. But even that won’t make me cave to whatever plan my father and Enrico have cooked up. How dare they create this mess, lose control, and then try to use everyone else to clean it up?
I know they’ve both suffered from the fallout—not just in the past four years, but even before that. Gino’s death was simply the final blow, giving my father’s in-laws and extended family the excuse they needed to openly disrespect him. And for a man like him, that’s worse than death. The casualties, the burned alliances, the destroyed factories and buildings—he can’t get those back. And now, his legs—his inability to ever walk again—serve as a daily, brutal reminder of everything he’s lost.
Enrico hasn’t fared any better. Isabella tells me how much his medications have increased, how he’s become a ghost of the man he used to be, wracked with guilt over his daughter’s death. Even a blind man could see he’s fading. He’s battling some illness no doctor has been able to name, and he’s convinced he’s running out of time. His business is crumbling. And after the failed attack—just before Giulia and I tried to elope—he lost nearly everything.
The truth is, Enrico no longer has the strength or resources to take on the Gagliardis—especially now that we’re gaining power under my leadership. But that doesn’t mean we aren’t struggling. If this war doesn’t end soon, we’ll be worse off than ever.
He’s being backed into a corner by the very organizations he aligned with after Alessandro pulled away—because I forced him to. Enrico took a massive gamble forming those alliances for that one strike against the Gagliardis. And now? Now he’s desperate. He doesn’t have a choice anymore. He has to stay inbed with them, not just because of the Gagliardis, but because the other major families are demanding an end to this war. The bloodshed has drawn too much attention: police scrutiny, FBI investigations, disruption to their businesses.
But even all of that—even a personal text from the devil himself—wouldn’t be enough to make me marry Isabella.
“We’re tired of losing the people we love,” one of the women says, her voice trembling. “Don’t we deserve an end to this?”
“Well,” I say coldly. “I guess everyone’s getting what they deserve today. I lost someone I love too. And what did anyone do about it? Nothing. So why should I be the one to fix this for you, when no one even tried to fix it for me? How can you all just forget about her—like she never existed? Especially you, Enrico.”
Enrico’s eyes dull at the mention of his daughter, the words hitting him like a sedative. “No one has forgotten her,” he says quietly. “To this day, the truth about her disappearance is still unknown—and you have no idea how much it breaks me, as a father, to be unable to bring her justice.”
Her death—if she’s truly dead—could have been nothing more than a trick. Maybe from the Echelon Syndicate, maybe another rival family trying to use the Montanari–Gagliardi war as a smokescreen for their own gain. That’s how this world works. People die for profit. For leverage. Sometimes for nothing at all.
“We’ve both spilled more than enough blood,” Enrico says, his voice tight with barely restrained fury. “But this war is no longer under anyone’s control. The streets are bleeding out. The business is cracking. And if more lives are lost, it won’t be because I stood by, pretending pride was still worth something.”
He pauses, jaw clenched. “I’m not doing this because I want to play peacemaker. I’m doing it because if we don’t end this now, we won’t have anything left to fight for. And believe me—I’d rather bury my ego than watch this entire city turn to ash. Ididn’t come here to beg. I came to end a war. And if it costs you your pride, Raffaele—so be it. We’ve all paid worse prices.”
The room goes still. His words hang heavy in the air—ugly, inevitable.
“Isabella is the only girl of the right age, and she knows her duty.”
“So now you crawl back, broken and afraid, and expect me to clean up the mess you made?” I sneer. “It took your daughter vanishing and my father losing the use of his legs for you to finally grow a conscience?” I shake my head. “You both disgust me.”
“Raffaele—” Emilio steps forward, but I lift a hand to stop him.
“Not another step.” He hears the warning in my voice and freezes, staring at me like I’m a beast about to snap. And maybe I am.
Something is building inside me—raw, primal rage. A violence I thought I’d buried long ago. But it’s back now, rising up like a tide, thick and unrelenting. Solidifying into something heavy, real. Digging into me like it’s here to stay.
“I will not marry Isabella,” I say, voice low and final. “Not now. Not ever. And the next time any of you think about trying to convince me otherwise, save yourself the effort. I’m not changing my mind.”
“There is no other choice,” Enrico says, his voice faint.
A closer look at him, and it’s clear—he’s aged five years since I last saw him. His suit hangs loose on his frame, deep bags shadow his eyes, and his shoulders are slumped inward. He’s a shell of the man he used to be. Tired. Worn down.
“This war started because of a family feud,” he continues. “And if we end that, I believe we’ll be uprooting the very seed of all the chaos tearing through Chicago.”
