Page 72 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
"No."
The answer comes immediately, instinctively, and I watch her expression shift slightly at the certainty in my voice.
"Why not?" She kicks her legs gently, heels tapping against the stone wall. "I have a pretty established track record of escape attempts."
"Because you are sitting on a fence watching the sunset instead of being halfway to the Canadian border." I lean against the wall below her, crossing my arms. "If you were running, you would not stop to admire the view, Bella."
She laughs at that, the sound soft and genuine. "Fair point."
"Also," I add, "you left your phone in the kitchen, which means either you genuinely forgot it—unlikely—or you wanted to be found. Eventually."
"Maybe I just wanted some time alone."
"Maybe." I study her silhouetted against the sky. "Or maybe you needed space to think and knew one of us would come looking eventually."
She does not confirm or deny, just continues watching the sunset with that contemplative expression.
"Are you going to come down?" I ask.
"Are you going to make me?"
"Do I need to?"
She considers this, head tilting slightly. "No. You can come up."
"Up there?" I eye the fence dubiously. "That thing does not look like it can hold two people."
"Guess we will find out." She pats the space beside her. "Come on, Gabe. Live dangerously."
The nickname—Gabe instead of Gabriel—makes something warm unfurl in my chest. She has been doing that lately, softening our names in her mouth like she is testing how they feel, like she is deciding whether we get to be familiar or if we stay formal.
I am definitely in favor of familiar.
I find the footholds in the stone wall—deliberate imperfections that make climbing possible if you know where to look—and haul myself up. The fence is indeed narrow, barely wide enough for one person let alone two, but I manage to settle beside her, our thighs pressed together out of necessity rather than choice.
Though I am not complaining about the necessity.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, watching the sun sink lower toward the horizon, painting the sky in increasingly dramatic shades of color. The air is cool but not cold, carrying the smell of autumn and the city and something distinctly Rosalina that I have come to associate with contentment.
"So," I say finally. "What are you thinking about up here?"
She doesn’t answer right away, just continues watching the sunset like it might hold answers. When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet, thoughtful.
"Everything," she says. "The last two months. How I got here. What happened the other night with Dante and Luca." She glances at me sideways. "How completely insane my life has become."
"Insane good or insane bad?"
"Insane good," she says, and there is wonder in her voice, like she is surprising herself with the admission. "Which is maybe the most insane part."
I lean back slightly, bracing my hands on the fence behind me, careful to maintain my balance. "You sound surprised."
"I am surprised," she admits. "Two months ago I was prepared to hate this. Hate being trapped here, hate being married to Dante, hate every single second of this arrangement." She kicks her legs again, gentler this time. "But I don't. I actually—I like it."
The words hang in the air between us, weighted with significance.
"The sharing thing," she continues, and I can hear the slight hesitation in her voice, like she is testing how the words sound out loud. "I have never felt so free."
That catches me off guard. "Free?"
