Page 90 of Broken Mafia Bride
On high alert now, we move out of the kitchen and toward the last door at the end of the hallway.
Before I can grab the handle of the door, Raffaele’s hand is on my hip, drawing me back.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I whirl around, seething.
“Stopping you from walking into a trap or something worse, all because you’re trying to show that you’re so strong,” he snaps. “Well, news flash, you’re not invincible.”
I don’t have time to hang out here and argue with him. I turn back to the door just in time to see one of the other men kick it down. Guns held at the ready, the four of us barge into the room.
Just like in the kitchen, there are clear signs of life. The bed is unmade, and a tiny TV across the room is showing the news in Italian. There’s a bag at the foot of the bed, and when I upturn it, I see a few clothes, some essentials, a fat wad of cash, a gun, and various IDs and passports.
“Looks like an emergency bag in case shit hits the fan,” the driver informs me.
“Which means she’s still close by,” I say, eyes scanning the space. “We wait, and as soon as she returns, we ambush.”
My fingers curl into fists at my sides.
Either Nelly tells me exactly who has my daughter and where to find them…
or I’ll spend the evening watching her fingernails come off—one by one.
The other guard who’s wandered over to check out the closet and the other doors leading off the room suddenly makes a startled sound. “I think it’ll be hard for you to ambush Martina.”
“Why?” I ask, confused. He motions to the bathroom door.
I exchange a glance with Raffaele before crossing over the thin, dirty rug to where the large man is standing at the bathroom door.
“Oh god.” My stomach lurches as I take in the bathroom.
It isn’t disgust that grips me as I stare at the woman floating in the tub, her eyes glassy and vacant. It’s anger. And helplessness.
Because this means we’re back at square one in our search for Noemi.
The woman in the tub is unmistakably Nelly.
The water has turned a sickly pink, and a razor rests on the edge of the tub. But the splashes on the floor, the faint bruising around her neck and wrists—none of it adds up to suicide.
This was staged.
“They got to her before we could,” Raffaele mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. From the corner of my eye, I see him glance at me, a flicker of concern behind the curiosity in his eyes.
I can’t move. My body feels locked in place as a dark wave surges up inside me.
How did her employers know we were coming?
And then the more terrifying thought hits me:
Is there a mole inside Casa Bianca?
“Whoever is behind all of this is extremely serious about keeping their identities unknown,” the driver grunts. “They fucking mean business, and I don’t think it’s safe to be here. Let’s go.”
The men begin to walk away, but I still can’t bring my feet to budge.
“Giulia—” Raffaele’s hand squeezes my shoulder.
“We just lost our lead. The only one we’ve had since this entire search began.”
My voice sounds robotic, flat. Too many emotions are crashing through my head, and right now, I don’t know which one to feel, let alone how to feel it.
