Page 120 of Broken Mafia Prince
I crumple the letter, but the cufflink stays in my palm, biting into my skin. I should throw it across the room, but I can’t.
My hand feels bare without the ring—until I realize I’m holding something else that matters far more.
His cufflink.
It shouldn’t comfort me.
It shouldn’t feel right.
But it does.
Because as much as I hate him, some sick, twisted part of me feels… relieved.
I’m furious at him. But I also feel free, and that makes me hate myself even more.
But I finally no longer feel the invisible shackles I’ve felt since I walked away from him.
I raise my hand to my face, staring at my ringless finger with a small smile. Then, I press my hand against my mouth, overwhelmed by the disbelief of what just happened.
I denied it for so long. I tried to resist—but that kiss.
I can’t keep lying to myself. There is only one person who has ever truly loved me.
I don’t know if we can survive the divide between our families. But for the first time in my life, I refuse to be afraid.
I hurry out of the apartment. As I watch the doors shut, sealing the penthouse from my view, it feels like I’m ending a chapter of my life. It’s terrifying and nerve-wracking, but nothing’s ever felt so good.
I breathe in, and for the first time in years, my chest doesn’t feel heavy.
It feels like freedom?—
and disaster —
and him.
And I already know—I’m running straight into the fire.
39
RAFFAELE
I’m nursing a glass of whiskey, staring at my laptop screen without actually seeing it. My mind’s been stuck in one place since I left Alessandro’s apartment. I told myself it was necessary, that I was cutting her free. But the truth is, I wanted her to see the cufflink. I wanted her to know it was me.
I wanted her to come.
When the landline rings, the sound slices through the silence like a knife. My pulse jumps, fingers tightening around the glass, because a part of me already knows.
By the time I get up from the chair, the phone has stopped ringing. It begins again as I cross the open floor living area to the hallway where the landline sits on a small side table. This time around, Marty raises his head and growls at the phone.
“Settle,” I tell him. “It’s just the phone.”
He doesn’t look impressed by my explanation, but at least he brings his head back down on his paws and just stares at me silently.
“Hello?” I say as soon as I pick up the phone.
“Good evening, sir. There’s someone here for you,” the receptionist informs me. “She says her name is—” There’s a pause, and I hear someone whisper something— “Giulia.”
My heart jolts at the mention of her name, and my hand around the phone tightens.
