Page 73 of Mafia Shade's Reluctant Bride
My breath slowed. Maria’s eyes held mine, the storm outside nothing compared to the one suddenly brewing between us.
“What did you want?”
She hesitated, just for a second.
Then—“Maybe for you to see me differently and not as your little sister.”
A sharp pull in my chest.
“Maria…”
She stepped closer, the space between us vanishing.
“Did you ever see me differently, Lorenzo?”
My throat went dry. I could lie. I could pretend this was nothing, but I was so tired of pretending. I was tired of the mask. It was suffocating me.
“There was never a time I saw you as a sister.”
The way we were so close was sucking the breath again out of my lungs. It was intoxicating and maddening. But I held my ground. I didn’t want to pull back.
“Then how did you see me?”
I exhaled, my hands clenching at my sides.
“I…”
I couldn’t say it. Not yet. Not when I wasn’t sure if once the words left my mouth, there would be any going back.
But Maria knew. I could see it in her eyes. The understanding.
The rain poured harder outside, but neither of us moved. For the first time, we knew we weren’t pretending anymore.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
MARIA
The night had ended with nothing. He never said what he saw me as. I ached for him to tell me that it wasn’t just some childhood silly crush, but all I got was nothing.
I had waited for something—anything. A word. A touch. A look that confirmed that what we had felt under that rainstorm wasn’t just in my head. But when Lorenzo simply pointed out that the rain had stopped, as if that was the only thing that mattered, and walked me back to the hotel in silence, I knew.
I had expected more.
Not a confession, not some grand romantic gesture, but something. At least a hug when we said goodnight. A lingering moment where I could pretend that whatever tension had sparked between us wasn’t just an illusion. Instead, he left me at my door with a simple “goodnight” and walked away, not once looking back.
It broke me.
I wouldn’t admit it, of course. But it did in so many ways.
I had barely slept, tossing and turning, the ache in my chest making it impossible to rest. By morning, it was more than just emotional exhaustion weighing me down—my whole body ached. My head felt stuffed with cotton, my throat was dry and sore, and every movement was an epistle of fatigue crashing over me.
“Great,” I mumbled, dragging myself out of bed. “Just perfect.”
I had caught a cold.
Because, of course, I had. Standing in the rain like a fool, letting myself get swept up in emotions, hoping for something that never came—of course, this was my reward. This was my payment for believing in the delusion of fairy tales that I would get some grand proclamation of love under the rain.
I am such an idiot. I deserve this.
