Page 6 of Masked Mafia's Runaway Bride

He lifted his hand, gently brushing a stray tear from my cheek. And then another shot rang out, so close I flinched, but I didn’t dare turn back to see where it had landed in his body. He gave me one last, steady look, then shoved me towards the door, his voice low and rough.

“Run, Mirella. Now.”

I hesitated for one heartbeat, and, in that moment, everything blurred together—the screams, the sound of my own pulse pounding in my ears, the stranger’s pained gaze, begging me to go before he shut the door behind me, then followed by the blast of gunshots. I veered to my heels, my legs carrying me forward, out of the church and into the city streets. I could hardly breathe as I ran through the city.

The streets felt foreign, cold, and distant. My feet were blistered, my lungs burned, and still, I couldn’t shake the image of him standing there, bleeding, ready to face the wrath of Don Carlos’s men alone, all for me.

I ran until my legs ached and my breath came in shallow gasps. The stranger’s last words echoed in my mind, haunting me:“Live. For both of us.”But how could I, knowing I’d left him behind to die?

I found refuge in a narrow alleyway, pressing myself against the wall as if it could hide me from the shame and guilt clawing at my heart.

The wind felt colder now, biting into my skin. But all I could do was hold onto that one last memory—the warmth of his hand in mine and his face so close as if he’d known me forever. A stranger, yet somehow, not.

****

Two painful and dreadful months passed, and I stayed low, drifting from town to town, a shadow of the person I once was. I told myself I was surviving for him and for the father I’d left behind. But every night, his face haunted me, taunting me with what could’ve been. And then, one day, everything changed.

I sat alone in a small cottage when reality hit me in one quiet, heart-stopping moment. My hands shook as I held the test strip before me.

Pregnant.

I was pregnant with his child, the stranger, the man I barely knew and yet could never forget. Sorrow and joy welled up inside me. I didn’t know where one emotion ended and the other began. I pressed my hand against my stomach, my heart pounding as I thought of him, that night, of his words, when he called me Cherry, the taste of him.

He was heavenly.

“Oh, little one,” I muttered, my voice breaking. “You’re all I have left of him.”

A tear slipped down my cheek, but I didn’t wipe it away. There was a strange strength in the knowledge that part of him lived on and that our brief love had created something beautiful. The life growing inside me was proof of him—proof he had loved me briefly but passionately.

But that love, that brief, unforgettable love, was enough to push me through.

I pressed both hands against my belly, feeling the faint imaginary heartbeat of life within me, and swore aloud.

“I will avenge your father and grandfather by any means necessary.”

Whether in life or in death, I would make them pay.

CHAPTER THREE

MIRELLA

“The city is too quiet,” I muttered to myself, loathing the way my voice echoed through the walls.

It’s been five good years, and I was still not used to the eerie silence the city brought. As a girl who grew up in New York and was used to the city being vibrant and noisy, I always looked forward to cursing and swearing as a form of distraction. In this city, where a pin drop could be heard from a mile away, a hundred thoughts turned over in my mind—loud, scary, and uncertain thoughts. But there was one clear constant—my son, Alex. Sweet Alex, with his father’s quiet brown eyes and my stubborn chin. That boy was my life. My only link to a future I once thought was gone.

He was in the next room, probably asleep by now, with his little stuffed rabbit tucked in beside him. I glanced at the door, feeling that familiar ache tug at my chest. How did I get so lucky with him? I would die for him; no, I’d do worse. I’d live for him every single day, making sure no harm ever touched him.

Alex made me see the world differently. Every laugh, every wobbly step, and even his messy drawings meant everything to me. He didn’t understand it yet, but he was the reason I pushed so hard, why I built this new life. All this was for him—and maybe, a little bit for the man who gave him to me. I couldn’t forget that man. I couldn’t shake his image hidden behind that mask.

I’d searched endlessly for him to at least know who he was, pouring over everything I could find on Don Carlos’s associates, but nothing came up. I didn’t even have a name, only the memory of a tattoo just below his elbow and the way he’d looked at me for that single moment. He was a ghost, a shadow, and maybe he had wanted it that way. But that didn’t stop me. I wanted to know who he was. I wanted to look him in the eyes and…what? Thank him? Accuse him? I wasn’t sure. Just toknow, that’s all. But I’d turned up empty, again and again. Then, why was I looking for a dead man?

Don Carlos had certainly survived, that much I knew. I’d seen him plastered across tabloids, smiling for cameras as if he were a model citizen. Everyone believed his story—that he was just a businessman, a club owner. Meanwhile, his real empire of weapons, drugs, and who knew what else was left untouched, hidden in the shadows. Rumor had it he even dabbled in human trafficking, though no one could prove it. He was like vapor, never leaving enough behind to be traced.

It made me sick.

But I knew, right then and there, that I had to outplay him. I couldn’t face him alone. No, I had to be untouchable first. That’s how Raven came to be. I’d built her from the ground up, right here in the city, cloaked in shadows. Mirella Gallo had disappeared the day I left, leaving only Raven in her place. No one knew they were the same person, just Dahlia, my brilliant assistant, and Enzo, my right hand. They didn’t know everything but they knew enough to trust me, and that was all I needed.

I glanced up as Enzo came through the door, his usual serious face betraying a hint of something else. Excitement, maybe?

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