Bound To The Mafia
His breathing was steady, the tension in his features less pronounced than before.
That should’ve comforted me.
It didn’t.
Minutes passed, maybe longer, before the door opened again. Rafael returned, carrying a tray laden with food—toast, scrambled eggs, fruit, and a glass of juice. A small, unimposing meal, but the sight of it sent a wave of nausea rolling through me.
He set it down on the bedside table. “Eat.”
I shook my head, shifting slightly in my chair. “I’m not hungry.”
Rafael pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling sharply. “Isadora—”
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