Page 38 of Dark Mafia Bride

“I’m seeing the wedding through,” I say, holding his gaze.

Vittorio nods slowly, understanding. “Then you’d better brace yourself for whatever comes next.”

13

MIRABELLA

It’s the morning of my wedding—the morning that ties me to a man I don’t know, the morning of a wedding I will not attend.

I stand in the center of my bedroom, wearing nothing but a bra and panties. I gaze at the woman in the tall mirror, barely recognizing the reflection.

The stranger staring back at me has sleek waves in her hair, bold red lipstick on her lips, and long fake lashes framing her eyes. Delicate diamond earrings dangle from her ears, and beside her on the bed lies a wedding gown designed by the best fashion designer in the city, waiting for her to wear it. The woman looks more beautiful than she’s ever been in her life, but beneath all that glamor, I sense sadness, fear, and panic. She is set to marry in less than an hour, and the only thought in her mind is escape.

“Do you need help getting into your dress, ma’am?” Clara asks gently, breaking my thoughts.

She came in early this morning with a makeup artist, a hair stylist, and a fashion designer. I smiled politely as they paintedmy face, adorned me with jewelry, and styled my hair. But during those three long hours, my mind raced.

Two days—two days of frantic planning have led to this moment. The time to act is now or never.

“No, I’m fine,” I mutter, forcing a smile.

I see Clara smile back, her eyes sparkling. “You look beautiful, ma’am. I totally get it if you feel jittery. It’s your wedding, after all! It’s normal to feel cold feet when things get real.”

I turn to her, and she glances down, a blush creeping up her cheeks under my gaze.

“S-sorry if I overstepped,” she stammers, nervously laughing. “It’s not like I’ve been married before or anything.”

I manage a smile, even though my heart aches. “It’s okay. Could you clean up this mess?” I gesture to the powder palettes, makeup brushes, and combs scattered across the dressing table.

“Of course,” she replies, her smile polite as she moves to tidy up on the other side of the room.

I let out a shaky breath, my heart racing in my chest. I’m not sure my plan will work. Too many things could go wrong. I might get caught. I could be fined for breaking a signed contract. Or worse, I could get hurt.

I still don’t know who my husband is, but I know one thing: he’s ruthless.

Reality hits hard. If I don’t escape now, I’ll be walking down that aisle in just a few minutes, sealing my fate with the devil himself.

I glance over my shoulder at Clara, who is now busy organizing the makeup brushes on the vanity. Her back is turned, and my pulse quickens. This is my moment.

Before I can think twice, my feet move, quietly padding across the cold floor. Clara doesn’t hear me coming. I remember what Nonna taught me once—a self-defense trick from heryounger days, a way to disarm someone without hurting them, but not without risk. She’d used it herself, back when danger was real and survival meant outsmarting those who threatened her. Nonna made me practice until my fingers knew the movements by memory, just in case.

My fingers tremble slightly, but I block out the fear, forcing myself to focus on Nonna’s words, her steady voice in my mind:“The carotid artery, just below the ear...apply just enough pressure, and they’ll drop like a stone.”

In one swift motion, I clamp my hand onto Clara’s shoulder, my fingers finding that throbbing spot by her neck. I feel her heartbeat racing beneath my fingers as I locate that pulsing spot by her neck. Her eyes fly open, widening in shock. She gasps, a flash of panic in her gaze as she starts to twist away.

For a brief moment, doubt strikes me, and my grip falters.

What if I mess this up? What if I hurt her?

But I push down those thoughts, refocusing, and apply a firm, precise pressure. Slowly, the resistance drains from her body, her knees giving way as she goes limp against me. A shiver runs through me as I catch her, lowering her as gently as I can to the floor.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, my voice shaky, almost breaking. I arrange her carefully, making sure she’s comfortable, trying to ignore the rising panic that claws at my throat as I stare down at her still form.

She’s just unconscious—Nonna said that’s all it would do. Right?

My heart hammers, thoughts colliding.

What the hell am I doing?

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