Page 96 of Broken Mafia Prince
Silence follows my words, and after what feels like forever, I reach for the door handle. That’s when he finally speaks up.
“Maybe.”
I push the door open and step out of the car without another glance at him. I force myself to put one foot in front of the other, again and again, each step feeling like another crack in my heart.
31
RAFFAELE
Two years later
She’s walking away from me.
As soon as I register that fact, panic sweeps through me like a hurricane, and I try to step out of the car and go after her. My legs refuse to budge, though, and when I glance down at them, I see that I’m stuck in quicksand. The car is gone, and I’m sinking fast.
“Giulia!” I scream her name, reaching for her, but she doesn’t turn around. Not even when I’m finally pulled under, the sand filling my nose and mouth.
Death comes in the form of a dark hallway with a bright light at the end. Squinting, I head toward the light, but just as I step into it, I find myself facing a familiar door. Everything inside of me begs me not to reach for the doorknob, not to put myself through torture again.
My hand moves of its own accord, reaching for the knob and turning it. I push the door open and step inside. The sound of my shoes against the tiled foyer echoes around the house.
I know it’s empty—I can see the furniture covered with white cloth and feel the barrenness of the place. It doesn’t stop me from calling for her.
“Giulia! Giulia!” I cry, gaze flying around wildly for any hint of her.
I search the house, opening doors and begging her to talk to me. “I just want to talk. I just want to say that we can fix this! Why won’t you give me the chance?”
I fling doors open with urgency, searching and searching. Finally, I open one last door, and there she is—with a bullet hole in her forehead.
“I told you,” she croaks. “I told you that you couldn’t end this war. You killed me!”
I glance down at my hands and see that they’re bloody and holding a gun. I let the gun drop to the floor, but by then, it’s already too late. The room is on fire, and the flames are enveloping her.
“Giulia!” I roar, reaching for her.
I jerk up in bed, panting and gasping for air. My body is soaked in sweat, and so are the sheets. It takes me a moment to realize that it was yet another dream.
After Giulia had walked away from me in the park that day, I knew letting her go wasn’t an option. So I’d done what any romance movie male lead worth his salt would do: I marched right to her doorstep the next day and prepared to fight like hell for her.
Her walking away was a sledgehammer against my ribcage, but staring at her empty house was the hit that finally succeeded in ripping me wide open. I’ve dreamed about those two moments countless times over the years. The dream starts the same way—with her walking away—but sometimes she doesn’t even make it across the park before a bullet from an unknown shooter rips through her.
I drag my fingers through my hair and check my time. It’s past six p.m., meaning I slept about fourteen hours. The new prescription pills are really working wonders. I’ll have to report to the family doctor so he can get me another batch.
My sleeping schedule has never been ideal, but since she left, it has become almost impossible. I’ve now fallen into the terrible habit of working myself to the bone just so I can drop into an unsatisfying two hours or so of sleep.
I feel slightly rested as I climb out of my sweat-soaked sheets and cross to the bathroom. I’m supposed to meet a few friends at an upscale bar downtown. I’ve been working sunup to sundown trying to get to the root of the Echelon Syndicate’s scheme, but it seems like each time I succeed in detangling one part, ten other knots show up.
It’s been two years, but I’m no closer to figuring out any of these. Each time I think of it, a headache pulses in my head.
I turn on the shower to icy spray and step under it, turning my face to the water. I’m so distracted by my thoughts that I don’t hear the bathroom door opening, or the patter of bare feet on the tiles, until someone presses up against me from behind.
I react instinctively and violently, my brain only registering danger.
I spin around, grab the intruder’s neck, smash him into the wall, and start to crush his windpipe, all before I take in terrified eyes, a bloodless face, and the sort of tits no Syndicate soldier can pull off. I release her and step away, turning off the shower and allowing her to cough and wheeze. I stare at the woman’s heart-shaped face and wonder who she is.
And most importantly, how the fuck did she get in?
The only people who have access to this flat are me and…
