Page 60 of Arranged Mafia Marriage

Her eyes shimmer. “That’s the hardest part. I want to shield him from everything, to give him a normal life, but that’s impossible. All I can do is love him fiercely and hope that’s enough to guide him through the storm when he finally learns the truth.”

As I listen to Isabella, I’m struck by the depth of her love and the sacrifices she’s made. My anger at Kiril begins to fade, replaced by a growing determination. I can’t let fear and mistrust drive a wedge between us, and I can’t let him use my new friend andnephew to send a message to Damiano. There’s another way if I can figure it out.

“Thank you for sharing that with me, Isabella. It’s given me a lot to think about.”

She smiles warmly. “We’re in this together now that we’re family.”

I nod, already formulating a plan. I need to talk to Damiano, to find a way to shelter Isabella and Tony without resorting to using them as pawns. It’s risky, going against Kiril’s wishes, but I have to try.

“Isabella, I need to step out for a bit. Will you be all right here with Tony?”

She looks surprised but nods. “Of course. Is everything okay?”

I force a reassuring smile. “Everything’s fine. I just need to take care of something. I won’t be long.”

As I leave the terrace, I pull out my phone and send a message to a secure number I’ve memorized, passed along to me by Santino at my last visit. I told him we had guests, and he gave me this number when I was ready to do what had to be done. Has Santino always had this goal, realizing I’d never agree to make Damiano’s family leverage once I got to know them? If so, he’s been a couple of steps ahead of me, and maybe even Kiril.

I have nothing to lose now, so I compose the message. It’s a gamble, but I have to try.

“Damiano, we need to talk. Neutral ground. It’s about your family.”

I hit Send, my palms sweating as I await a response. This could change everything, for better or worse, but for Isabella, Tony, and the future of both our families, it’s a risk I have to take.

Moments later, my phone buzzes with a call, not a text, and I glance at the screen, unsurprised to see Damiano’s name. I inhale deeply and release it slowly, preparing for the conversation ahead. I answer the call, keeping my voice steady. “Damiano.”

“You’ve got some nerve. What game are you playing?” He sounds enraged.

I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see me. “No games, Damiano. We need to talk.”

“Talk? You think I’m stupid enough to fall for that? You’re trying to lure me into a trap.”

“If I wanted to trap you, I wouldn’t be so obvious about it,” I say, my patience wearing thin. “Look, this is about Isabella and Tony. Don’t you want to know they’re safe?” As we’re talking, I send him a picture of the two of them that I took at Central Park a couple of days ago.

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and he’s clearly assessing the photo I saw. When Damiano speaks again, his voice is low and dangerous. “What are they doing in the city, and what do you know about them?”

“Enough to know you should hear me out. Meet me at Central Park, near the hot dog stand by the carousel. One hour.”

“You expect me to walk into an ambush? I don’t think so.”

I curse softly, exasperated. “For fuck’s sake. It’s a public place in broad daylight. Bring your guys if you want but keep them at a distance. This is between you and me.”

Another pause. I can practically hear him thinking.

“Fine,” he says finally. “One hour, but if this is a trick…”

“It’s not. See you there.” I hang up before he can respond. I’ve set the wheels in motion, and there’s no turning back now. My stomach clenches, and I’m abruptly nauseated. It could be pregnancy sickness or nerves. Probably both. Fortunately, the contents of my stomach choose to remain there, and the surge of nausea soon passes.

An hour later, I’m standing by the hot dog stand, scanning the crowd for any sign of Damiano. I’ve chosen a spot with clear sight-lines in all directions, making it difficult for anyone to sneak up on me.

I spot him before he sees me. He’s wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap, but I recognize the set of his shoulders and the way he moves. He walks the same way Kiril and Viktor do, as though awaiting an imminent attack. He’s flanked by two men, who are trying too hard to look casual.

I give a cheery smile and wave at him to get his attention. Damiano approaches, his face a mask of suspicion. “All right, I’m here. Start talking.”

I gesture to the hot dog stand. “Let’s get some food first. I’m starving, and this will look less suspicious if we’re eating.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks, but he nods tersely. We order our hot dogs in silence, then move to a nearby bench.

“So,” says Damiano, taking a bite of his hot dog. “What’s this about Isabella and Tony? Are they really in the city? Have you been following them?”

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