Page 98 of Broken Mafia Bride
Her hand grips mine tightly, tears slipping down the sides of her face.
“I’m so sorry… I’m really sorry.”
My heart lurches.
“What are you talking about? Isabella, please—now’s not the time to apologize. Save your strength.”
“No. Let me… Giulia, I lied. I d-deserve this.”
“No. Stop. You don’t. Youdon’tdeserve this.”
“There’s no baby,” she whispers, a weak, bitter chuckle breaking from her throat. “I lied. Raffaele never touched me. He was too drunk. He loves you. It’s always been you. Only you.”
Tears blur my vision. I wipe them away with shaking hands.
“Don’t talk, Isa. You’ll be fine. Just hold on.”
“No. I need to say this. That night… he took off his clothes, called meGiulia… but he passed out before anything happened. He was so wasted. Then he just… fell asleep. Please… tell him I’m sorry.”
“No… Isa… you’re going to tell him yourself. You hear me? You’re going to tell him. Just stay with me.”
“Giulia… It’s not just that. I did something worse. I?—”
“Isa…”
“I’m s-so—” She makes one last croaking sound, another jet of blood spilling from her mouth, and then she goes still. Too still.
“Isa! Isa!” I scream. “Wake up! Wake up! I can’t lose you too. Please, don’t do this to me. I’ve already lost too much. Please don’t die on me.”
I don’t even realize I’m screaming—shaking her hard, frantically pressing down on her chest in a useless effort to revive her—until Raffaele pulls me away, holding me as I fall apart in the unyielding safety of his arms.
30
RAFFAELE
Abottle would fix this. Whiskey, vodka, even a shitty bottle of beer, just one hit of something sharp to take the edge off. But I made a promise: I’d never touch another drop after what happened with Isabella.
I’m not an alcoholic.
Or at least, that’s what I tell myself while my body threatens to buzz out of its skin suit.
I wipe my palm over the fogged-up bathroom mirror and come face-to-face with startling blue eyes that stand out even more against my pale face. My gaze drops to the stitches on my shoulder, where the bullet grazed me. If I’d shifted just an inch to the right, the bullet would’ve dug deeper—and she would’ve been fine.
It’s the same thing with Gino all over again, and the guilt of it is pulling me under.
It’s been four days since the assassination, and I can’t help but think it’s my fault. I brought her here, then went off on my own to search for Noemi, incurring someone’s wrath. And now she’s dead because I wanted to be a hero.
I should’ve listened to Lucio when he told me that things on the island are done differently than in Chicago. But fuck it—I was sick of dead ends. And anyway, I don’t trust Lucio and Enrico as far as I can throw them. It’s hard to believe they’re putting their all into a child they haven’t even met.
I don’t know what kind of man Re Ombra is, but I doubt he’s all that different from my father—or Giulia’s. If it doesn’t benefit them somehow, it doesn’t matter.
Which was why hearing my father talk about my marriage to Isa “keeping the peace” in Chicago was ridiculous. As if he gives two fucks about peace. The fucker probably saw it as his chance to get close to Lucio Sanna, whisper about how horrible Enrico is, and strike some alliance with him.
None of that matters now anyway. Because she’s dead. And even though she deceived all of us—tore Giulia and me even farther apart—her being gone doesn’t make things easier.
Despite what she did, the truth is… she saved me.
If I’d kept drinking and fighting, I’d have eventually run out of luck and gotten myself killed.
