Page 73 of Masked Mafia's Runaway Bride

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Mirella’s house looked like a war zone. Furniture overturned, glass shattered, and signs of a struggle in every corner of the living room. I stepped carefully over the remnants of what used to be a vase, scanning for anything that might tell me what happened here. My heart was pounding, and not just because of the mess. It was too quiet. The kind of quiet that sets your teeth on edge and makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. I knew Mirella wouldn’t be here, but I came to get Dahlia and Alex.

No Alex. No Dahlia. That pit in my stomach, the one I’d been trying to ignore since Ryan’s call, was now a full-blown chasm.

I crouched near the broken coffee table, picking up a small stuffed bear. It belonged to Alex. He never went anywhere without it.

“Damn it,” I muttered under my breath, clenching the toy in my hand.

This wasn’t random. This wasn’t a burglary or some street-level thug breaking in. No, this had Don Carlos written all over it.

I straightened, tossing the bear onto the couch. Time wasn’t on my side. If Don Carlos had taken them, I couldn’t afford to sit around playing detective.

I reached for my phone, my fingers trembling slightly as I dialed the number I knew by heart. My father’s number.

It rang twice before he answered, his voice smooth and authoritative as always.

“Sergio. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I forced a smile into my tone. “I heard you caught The Raven,”

Don Carlos chuckled. “You heard correctly. She’s right here.”

My heart almost skipped a beat, but I managed to keep it steady.

“It’s about time. Mirella thought she was smart, but we outsmarted her.”

I paused. I knew my father too well to know if I wanted him to let me in, I needed to sell this role to him.

“I started suspecting her some time ago,” I began, keeping my voice steady and careful. “Little things here and there. Missing meetings. Strange calls. But I didn’t have proof.”

“And now?”

I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Now, I know you are right about her. The Raven, Father? It’s possible.”

He made a sound of approval, the kind of sound he used to make when I aced a test as a kid. It grated on me.

“So, you’ve finally started using that brain of yours,” he said.

I swallowed the insult and pressed on. “I thought I’d use this opportunity to prove myself to you. Let me handle it, Father. Let me take care of Mirella.”

The line went quiet again, and for a moment, I thought I’d pushed too hard. Then, his voice came through, sharp and decisive.

“You want to prove yourself, Sergio?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Come to the old warehouse in Westchester. I’ll give you the address.”

I barely stopped myself from sighing in relief. Instead, I grabbed a pen from the floor and scribbled the address he rattled off onto the back of my hand.

“Consider this a test,” he added, his tone dripping with condescension. “Don’t disappoint me.”

The line went dead, and I lowered the phone, staring at the address on the paper like it might combust in my palm.

A test. That’s what he thought this was. My father’s games had always been cruel, but this wasn’t about me proving myself to him. This was about Mirella, Alex, Dahlia—and getting them out alive.

I shoved the phone back into my pocket and glanced around the room one last time, searching for any clue I might have missed. But the house gave me nothing, just more questions than answers.

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