Page 1 of Masked Mafia's Runaway Bride

CHAPTER ONE

MIRELLA

“Maybe I should run away or kill myself?”

Funny words, but who was going to pull the trigger? I thought about it for a moment before shrugging the thought away.

I am going to do this.I had no choice. My father was counting on me.

The gown felt heavy, but not as heavy as my heart. I stood at the altar, hands trembling as I clutched the bouquet. The veil obscured my face, but it couldn’t hide the tears threatening to spill.

I forced my gaze forward to him, my husband-to-be, my father’s best friend, the man I was marrying out of duty, not love. His eyes held pride; mine held nothing.

This wasn’t a fairy tale.

It was a merger disguised as a wedding, and for the sake of my father, I was the sacrificial lamb.

The past weeks leading up to this moment had been the worst days of my life. My father’s business had hit its all-time low, forcing him to declare bankruptcy. It was a moment, though he dreaded it, we had seen coming from miles away. It started with a reckless financial decision he had made. His severe gambling addiction after my mom died from cancer had played a vital rolein it, and now, it has cost me my life. Two weeks ago, Don Carlos, his business partner and best friend, had offered to help. He had only one condition.

I would be his wife.

That was it. Marry the old, ruthless Mafia Don, and all our problems disappear. It wouldn’t have been so dreadful, but I hated Don Carlos to my bones. I loathed, abhorred, and despised him.

And, of course, there was last night, the only night I’d felt real in weeks. I had wandered away from my own last-minute engagement party like a ghost, invisible in a sea of masked faces—irony at its finest, really.

Everyone else had on a mask, and I was the one no one noticed. I’d downed a glass of champagne—or three. I remembered him—the stranger—a man in a dark tuxedo who stood just outside the light, watching me with eyes that seemed familiar. It was familiar in a way that ached in me, stirring something up from the depths.

It was like the moment he caught my eye, the room faded around me. Maybe it was just the champagne, but his gaze was captivating. Too captivating.

“Are you lost?” he asked, his voice smooth as the whiskey I’d have preferred over champagne.

I raised an eyebrow. “I might ask you the same thing.”

He chuckled, low and rich. “No mask,” he observed, nodding toward my bare face. “Risky move.”

“Maybe I like a little risk,” I shot back, feeling uncharacteristically bold. Blame it on the overly priced wine.

His smile widened. It was a smile that melted my soul in a way I had never experienced before. It penetrated deep into me, tearing me bare. “Or maybe you’re just tired of hiding.”

I blinked, and for a second, his gaze softened, like he could see right through me—through all the pretenses and straight to the ache underneath. Then, he casually looked away as if he hadn’t just laid me bare in a single sentence. He ran a hand over his hair, the tailored suit fitting him so well it was almost criminal.

“What’s a woman like you doing, all alone at her own party?” he asked, eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Oh, you noticed that, did you?” I laughed a little bitterly. “Congratulations. You’re officially the first person here to realize I exist.”

“Well, I have a knack for spotting hidden gems,” he replied, inching a bit closer. I could smell his cologne that lingered in the air—a woody musk smell that captivated me and had me on a choke hold. But it wasn’t just the cologne.

It was the way he looked at me—it made my pulse quicken, a dangerous thrill replacing the emptiness in my chest. He raised his glass, leaning in. I couldn’t help but wonder who he was behind the mask and why those eyes seemed like ones I had known all my life.

“Now tell me. I am curious. Why does the most beautiful woman in the room look like she’d rather be anywhere else?”

There it was again—something in his tone that cut right through my defenses. The way he called me beautiful—like it was a fact, not a compliment. And I, with all my stubborn dignity, felt a flush creep up my cheeks.

“Well,” I began, my voice a touch shaky, “for one, I have no idea who half these people are.”

He laughed, and it was such a genuine sound it startled me. “So, if I offered to whisk you away from all this—‘strangers’ for a moment, would you take me up on it?”

“Whisk me away?” I narrowed my eyes, skeptical but intrigued. “Is that a line you use on every woman at a masquerade?”

---