Page 60 of Broken Mafia Bride
“Giulia, are you okay?” Caterina’s voice cuts in, and she appears from the other side, gaze swinging between me and Isabella.
“I’m fine,” I assure her.
“You ran out like you’d seen a ghost,” Caterina says, her tone laced with concern. “Are you okay?” Her gaze flicks to Isabella, sharp. “What happened?”
Isabella straightens, her expression calm but unreadable. “Nothing. We just needed a moment to talk—family things.”
Caterina arches a brow but doesn’t push. Instead, she turns back to me. “Lucio’s asking for you.”
I nod, grateful for the shift in focus. I don’t have the energy to bridge the gaps in everyone’s understanding right now—to unpack years of silence, pain, and half-truths into something coherent.
The weight of it all feels impossible to carry, let alone explain.
And honestly, I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
Nearly everyone I know is in Sardegna, yet suddenly, only one voice matters.
The one I’ve run from for years.
The one I never stopped hearing in my head.
I turn to Caterina, my voice quieter now, but firm. “Tell Lucio… I need some time. Please.”
She watches me for a second, searching my face, then nods once and steps away.
I walk back to my room on autopilot, the conversation with Isabella still echoing in my ears.He’s sick. Barely holding on.
Each word had landed like a stone in my chest.
I find my phone sitting neatly on my bedside table, like it’s been waiting for this moment all along. My fingers tremble, but I don’t hesitate.
Climbing into the center of my bed, I sit cross-legged, cradling the phone in both hands like it might burn me. I dial the number without needing to think—muscle memory born of a childhood long buried.
The line rings once. Twice.
Then—
“Hello,” comes the voice. Raspy. Tired. Older.
I let out a deep breath, in an attempt to ease every tense nerve and muscle. My throat tightens. I haven’t called him in years. I don’t know what he’ll say—or if he’ll even want to hear from me. But I say it anyway.
“Hello, Papa.”
18
RAFFAELE
Acouple of minutes earlier
Liar.
Such a fucking liar.
I can’t even look at her—and I’m both relieved and raging when she finally flees the room. After years of searching, years of being suspended in limbo, I should feel like I can breathe again.
But every breath feels like needles stabbing into my lungs.
I’m alive again, but living? Living is just a little more painful than the numb, bleeding hole I carried inside me for so long. Part of me wants to go back—to the endless search, the crushing sorrow, the numbness. At least then, the pain made sense.
