Page 25 of Masked Mafia's Runaway Bride

I chuckled softly, shaking my head. “That’s fair.”

A moment later, her voice carried over again. “I need a hand.”

I turned halfway, cautious. “With what?”

“My dress,” she said, stepping out from behind the partition.

She was holding the sides of the deep green dress she’d slipped on, her back to me. The zipper was stuck halfway, exposing the smooth expanse of her spine. My feet moved before I could think, closing the distance between us.

“Hold still,” I said, my voice lower than I intended.

She stood perfectly still as I reached for the zipper, my fingers brushing her skin. It was warm, soft, and familiar. The scent of her shampoo lingered in the air, and for a brief moment, I forgot why we were there. All I could think about was how close she was and how her breath hitched slightly when my fingers lingered too long.

I pulled the zipper up slowly, almost reluctantly. When it reached the top, I let my hand rest there, just for a second. Her skin was under my palm, and she didn’t move. Neither did I.

“It’s done,” I murmured, though I didn’t step back right away.

Her head turned slightly, just enough for me to catch the faint curve of her profile. “Thanks,” she said softly.

The moment stretched and the ambiance centered between us. My gaze dropped to the curve of her neck, and I leaned forward without thinking. My hand stayed on her back, and I felt her shift closer, just barely. It would’ve been so easy to close the distance, to lose myself in her for just one more moment.

But then I remembered why we were there. The shipment. The stakes. Don Carlos’s threats.

I stepped back abruptly, my hand falling to my side. “We should go,” I whispered, clearing my throat.

She turned fully to face me, her expression unreadable. For a second, I thought she might say something, but she just nodded. “Let’s go.”

The elevator ride to the lobby was silent, but I could still feel the weight of her presence beside me. Every so often, our arms would brush, and it sent a jolt through me each time. I stuffed my hands into my pockets, trying to keep my thoughts in check.

“What’s on the menu?” she asked, breaking the silence as we stepped out.

“Whatever you want,” I winked, teasing her. “Your pick.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Generous.”

“Just don’t pick anything too fancy. I left my wallet upstairs,” I joked, earning a laugh from her.

That laugh—it was worth more than I’d admit. She is worth the fight. I know she said I shouldn’t protect her, but I will be there to protect her when she needs me. My existence, everything about my being, I live and breathe for Mirella now. She is the one I care about, the only one. I am not playing hero, but when bullets start flying, I won’t think twice before taking one for her.

“Mirella,” I whispered. She veered around to glance at me and my eyes met hers.

“Whatever happens today, know that I will be there for you. I won’t ever let anything happen to you. I would rather die,”

She stared at me in silence. I meant it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MIRELLA

The restaurant was quiet, tucked into a cozy corner of the hotel, with soft lighting and a faint melody of classical music playing in the background. Sergio had chosen a table near the window, overlooking a fountain. It felt intimate, too intimate for what this breakfast was supposed to be—a simple meal before chaos unfolded. Yet, sitting across from him, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of his presence.

His hands lingered on me longer than necessary, and I knew I should have said something, done something to set boundaries. But truth be told, I liked the way he looked at me and the way his hands rested on my skin as if I was the only person in the room. It had been a long time since anyone looked at me like that—since the stranger, since that night. But today, I felt every bit of the emotions.

The restaurant was quieter than I’d expected. A corner table by the window offered a perfect view of the street below, but I barely noticed it. My attention was entirely on Sergio.

He sat across from me, his shoulders relaxed but his gaze intense. It was the kind of intensity that could make a person feel seen and unnerved all at once.

The waiter left after taking our orders, and silence settled between us. I fiddled with the edge of my napkin, stealing glances at him. The way his jaw tensed, the slight twitchof his fingers against the table—he was thinking hard about something.

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