Page 41 of Dark Mafia Bride

I hang up, my breath ragged, as I shove the phone into my pocket and start heading down the end of the street.

I did it. I’m free—at least for now. But I know they’ll come after me. I can feel it. And my plan is to have disappeared from the face of the earth before they do.

I keep moving, my eyes flicking behind me every few seconds. The pristine lawns and gated mansions blur as the landscape shifts to city storefronts and chaotic sidewalks. The air smells like coffee, exhaust fumes, and freshly baked bread. Main Street hums with life—office workers hustle withbriefcases and coffee cups, street vendors shout about their wares, and laughter spills from open cafes.

I weave through the crowd, keeping my head low. Each step feels heavier, each glance over my shoulder more desperate. For a moment, I almost believe I’ve outrun them—until I see it.

A black sedan turns the corner across the road, its polished surface gleaming like an oil slick. My breath catches, and my heart plunges into my stomach.

I know that car. Ettore’s fleet.

The back door swings open, and three scary-looking men step out, their movements precise and purposeful. They wear dark suits, their expressions cold and predatory. My stomach churns as I realize they’re scanning the crowd.

They’re looking for me.

And that’s when it happens. One of them spots me. My eyes meet the eyes of one of the men. Time seems to freeze. I don’t hear the traffic anymore, don’t see the bustling crowd. It’s just him and the subtle hand signal he gives the others, and the way they all begin marching toward me.

Run.

The command explodes in my mind, and I obey. My legs move before I fully register what’s happening. The ground feels like quicksand beneath me, but I push forward, darting through the crowd.

Heavy footsteps thunder behind me, cutting through the chaotic symphony of the street.

God, please.

It’s the second time today I’ve prayed to a God I don’t believe in, clinging to the hope of a miracle.

I veer into a narrow alley, heart pounding as I gulp in air, yanking the suffocating mask off my face. The alley smells like damp concrete and stale beer, but it’s empty. For a brief moment, I think I’ve gained the upper hand.

Then another sedan screeches to a halt at the alley’s end, blocking my escape.

“Fuck, there she is. Get her!” The man steps out, his sharp gaze locking onto me.

I spin around and sprint back the way I came, only to see two of the original men closing in fast.

No time to think. No time to breathe. I lunge left into a crowded flea market by the left, my feet pounding against the pavement as I dodge around people, ignoring the strange looks and yelps. The maze of stalls is chaotic, bursting with people and bright, mismatched colors. Vendors shout over each other, peddling trinkets and clothes. I shove through, ignoring the angry protests of those I bump into.

Behind me, their shouts grow louder. They’re relentless, like wolves closing in on their prey. My legs feel like lead, and a sob threatens to escape as I realize I can’t keep this up.

Then I spot it—a small boutique tucked between two larger stores.

This is it. My only chance.

With a desperate haste, I run towards the store and push my way through the doors. The bell jingling faintly overhead. The store inside is lined with mannequins dressed in bright colors, racks full of blouses, skirts, and coats create a maze inside. The smell of leather and cheap perfume fills the air as I slip past the racks, trying to steady my breathing.

The shopkeeper, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes, looks up, startled. I grab the first items I see—a navy sweater and a pair of jeans—and murmur, “Excuse me,” before darting into the dressing room.

I still have makeup on my face, but it’s melting off my skin now, running down my chin in rivulets mixed with foundation and sweat.

When I glance at myself in the mirror, I notice why the storekeeper had looked at me weirdly earlier. My hands tremble as I strip off the maid uniform and pull on the new clothes. My hair, damp with sweat, clings to my face until I tuck it beneath a baseball cap from a nearby display.

My makeup is still a mess— I wipe at it with trembling hands, but it only smears further. I finally settle with using the maid clothes to wipe of the remnants completely.

When I step out, I hand the shopkeeper a crumpled wad of cash without counting it. I usually tuck a few bills inside my phone case for emergencies—just enough to get by if I need to pay for something in a hurry. This moment, with my heart pounding and my hands trembling, definitely qualifies as one of those emergencies.

Her eyes linger on me, curiosity flickering, but she says nothing.

I hurry toward the door, casting a glance outside. I spot the men lurking around a nearby store, searching for me with their eyes. The street outside feels more hostile than ever. I glance toward the sedan. The men are questioning a shop owner now, their frustration palpable.

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