Page 42 of Mine Again
Twenty-two years of conditioning say I shouldn’t open it.
And I don’t.
I turn and climb the stairs to my room. Closing the door behind me, I sink onto the bed and pull my knees to my chest.
Father is dead.
This changeseverything.
Mamma will be in charge now. At least temporarily. That means no more arranged marriages, no more political deals. Not immediately, anyway.
I could still run. My plan is still viable. And with the chaos of Father’s death and Mateo’s new reign, no one would come looking for me.
All I have to do is take the first step.
But I don’t want a life without my family, especially now that we’re free of Father’s tyranny. And I don’t want to spend it running or hiding, always looking over my shoulder.
I want to live. Thrive. Not just survive.
I want to stay, but on my own terms.
And now, that’s actually possible. Isn’t it?
Still, I can’t ignore the other truth.
Mari is married to the new Don. Our family isn’t just a respected Mafia house anymore.
We’re blood-linked to the throne.
As sisters-in-law of the Don, we’ve become a hot commodity for any ambitious mafioso looking for a shortcut to power.
We can’t trust any man in our world. They might woo us with charm, and yes, some of them have it. Father did. It’s how he ended up with Mamma and all the influence that came with her family name.
We could never be sure if a man wanted us or the power that came with marrying into our bloodline.
And the worst part? As starved as we are for positive male attention, there’s a real chance we could fall for it.
My eyes flick to the corner of the room where Luca’s camera used to be. A pang of longing swells in my chest. I wish he were here to hold me.
If he were alive… if we were married… everything would be different. He wouldn’t have looked after just me, but Mamma and my sisters too, making sure any potential suitors who came near them had only honest intentions.
I unfold my legs and reach for the bedside drawer. Inside still sits the little velvet box with my engagement ring. I’ve forced myself not to look at it for weeks, and I’m not sure why I’m reaching for it now. Am I seeking comfort or torturing myself further?
I don’t touch it. Instead, I stare at it as if it might hold the answers I need. Perhaps it does, because a thought sparks.
Maybe thereisanother way out.
One that doesn’t require cutting ties with the people I love.
I laugh to myself. If anyone saw me, they’d think I’d gone mad.
The idea is ridiculous. Absurd, even.
Or is it?
Chapter Fifteen
Isabella
