Page 5 of Masked Mafia's Runaway Bride

Don Carlos’s tone was almost bored. “I’ll give you until the count of five, Mirella. Either you tell me who the man was, or I pull this trigger.” He looked at me with a chilling calmness, the kind that only someone completely void of empathy could manage. “One.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. My mind raced, but all I could think of was the stranger, the way he’d looked at me with those warm, brown eyes, the way he’d asked me to stay, to run away with him.

“Two.”

I closed my eyes, forcing myself to breathe.Think, Mirella. Think!But all I could feel was the cold metal in Don Carlos’s hand, aimed directly at my father’s heart.

“Three.”

Every cell in my body screamed at me to run, to fight back, to do something, but I was rooted in place, paralyzed by the situation I had fucked my way into. My father was still standing, his eyes wide with terror, and I could see his lips moving, whispering something—maybe a prayer, maybe an apology. But what good would it do? Don Carlos was not a man of mercy.

“Four.”

My eyes locked onto Don Carlos, the twisted satisfaction in his gaze, the glint of triumph as he relished every second of my silence. He knew he had me trapped. He knew there was nothing I could do, no words I could say, no secret I could reveal that would undo the nightmare unraveling before me.

“Five…”

I heard the shot before I could utter a word.

It was like the entire world held its breath, and then chaos exploded around me. I heard gasps and screams, and suddenly, there he was, the stranger, his face hidden by that same mask, striding down the aisle with a gun aimed straight at Don Carlos. My stomach flipped as the realization hit me: he was here. He’d come back for me.

Don Carlos barely had time to react before the gunshot echoed, sharp and loud, and the bullet struck him right in the chest. Don Carlos stumbled, his hand reaching out in shock before he crumpled to the floor. And in that moment, all I could think of was that look in his eyes—cold and ruthless.

The stranger didn’t hesitate. He turned to me and extended his hand, and my heart skipped. But it wasn’t his eyes or the mask that made me reach out. It was the tattoo, a dragon coiled just below his elbow. A tattoo I’d run my fingers over just last night. It was really him. He was here to rescue me.

“Come with me,” he said, his voice low and commanding, pulling me out of my daze. His grip was warm and familiar, and without thinking, I took his hand.

Then all hell broke loose.

Don Carlos’s men, his so-called loyal guards, surged forward, shouting orders and drawing their guns. Shots fired, ricocheting off the walls. My heart was pounding, and I could hardly think straight. I’d never felt this level of fear, and yet, there was something freeing in the stranger’s hand, pulling me through the gunshots.

“Over here!” He yanked me behind a pillar, shielding me as bullets zipped past, hitting chairs and chipping walls. I was breathless, my chest heaving. He leaned in close, and I could see the intensity in his eyes, even through the mask. “We’re getting out of here.”

I looked up, almost dizzy with adrenaline, barely able to form words. “But—my father. I can’t leave without him.”

The stranger’s expression softened, but only for a second. He scanned the room, assessing the danger, then pulled me closer. “There’s no time. He’d want you safe. We have to go.”

I shook my head, fighting back the tears. “No. I can’t just leave him to die here.”

More gunshots. This time, one of them hit the wall inches from us, and instinctively, he pulled me into his chest, his arms wrapping protectively around me. It felt like a shelter I didn’t know I needed. A shiver ran through me, and when I looked up, he was watching me intently.

“I didn’t come all this way to lose you,” he whispered.

For one brief moment, the room seemed to fall away. There was only his voice.

“Fine,” I managed, my voice barely a whisper, but before I could say anything more, a blast echoed, and the stranger grunted. He clutched his shoulder, blood seeping through his fingers. He swayed slightly, and my heart dropped.

“No, no! You’re hurt,” my voice broke. I tried to steady him, but he shook his head, pushing me back.

“Go, Mirella. Run. Get out of this city, and don’t look back.”

“I can’t… I can’t just leave you.”

“You have to,” he breathed, struggling to stay on his feet, pain etched across his face. He forced a smile, almost tender, and for one terrifying moment, I thought he was going to fall. “I’ll find you. I promise.”

“But… you’re hurt. I don’t even know your name.”

A small chuckle escaped him, pained but full of warmth. “Names are overrated. Now, go. Live. For both of us.”

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