Page 43 of Masked Mafia's Runaway Bride

“Perhaps,” she said. “Or perhaps I just wanted to see the man behind the reputation.”

“And?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said simply.

“Good or bad?”

“Both,”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re full of surprises, Raven.”

“So are you,” she whispered.

Her voice, distorted as it was, still carried a strange kind of confidence. It wasn’t just the mask or the words she chose. It was the way she carried herself and the way she controlled the room without lifting a finger.

I watched her. Something about her felt familiar, though I couldn’t quite place it. The way she tilted her head, the way her gloved fingers tapped softly against the table—it was like I’d seen it all before.

“You know,” I said, leaning forward again, “for someone who likes control, you’re giving me very little to work with here.”

“Am I?” she asked, her tone almost amused.

“Yeah,” I said. “And I don’t think that voice is yours, either.”

For the first time, she hesitated, just for a fraction of a second. It was subtle, but it was there.

“What makes you think that?” she asked.

I smiled, letting the silence hang for a moment before answering. “Call it a hunch.”

She didn’t respond right away, but I could tell I’d hit a nerve. Whatever game she was playing, I wasn’t going to let her win that easily.

The longer I sat across from her, the more I felt like I was being drawn into something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. This wasn’t what I expected. The Raven was supposed to be ruthless and calculating—a shadow in the night. Instead, here she was, speaking with a calm, refined elegance that felt out of place in a world filled with gunfire and betrayal.

And yet, it wasn’t out of place at all. It was striking. She was striking.

“Let’s talk about the shipment,” I said, leaning forward, my fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the table. “Why take it? You know that’s a declaration of war.”

She tilted her head slightly, like she was weighing her response. The way she moved was deliberate, almost theatrical. Every gesture, every pause, felt calculated, yet it wasn’t cold. It was fascinating.

“It’s not personal,” she said finally, her voice smooth and even. “It’s just business.”

“That’s the cliché answer,” I countered. “Come on, give me something better. Humor me.”

Her fingers tapped lightly against the table, a subtle rhythm that matched the calmness in her voice. “You’re a smart man, Mr. Sergio. Surely, you’ve learned by now that in business, emotion is a liability.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “You’re dodging the question.”

“Am I?” she said, a hint of amusement in her tone.

“Yeah, you are.”

She leaned back slightly, and for a moment, the flicker of a candle caught the edge of her mask. The designs on it shimmered faintly, giving her an almost ethereal quality.

“Can I ask you a question?” she said suddenly.

It caught me off guard. I wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of curiosity. “A question?”

“Yes,” she said, tilting her head again. “Unless you’re afraid of answering.”

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