The Reluctant Mafia Bride

Episode 14

Dahlia’s Point Of View

The bartender slid my cocktail across the polished counter, the condensation already forming a delicate sheen on the glass. I picked it up, the cool surface smooth against my fingertips, and took a slow sip. The tangy sweetness of cranberry mixed with the sharp bite of lime, followed by the subtle warmth of vodka. The combination was oddly soothing, and for the first time all night, the tight coil in my chest began to loosen.

I let myself settle into the moment, the bass-heavy rhythm of the music reverberating through the room, mingling with the hum of conversation and occasional bursts of laughter. The lights pulsed in time with the beat, casting everyone in a shifting glow of reds, blues, and purples. It was chaotic, but in a way that felt distant, like watching a storm from the safety of a warm room.

Just as I was beginning to let the alcohol and atmosphere do their work, someone slid onto the stool beside me. I caught a whiff of something clean and woodsy—his cologne, subtle but undeniably masculine. I glanced over, and my eyes landed on a guy who looked like he belonged on the cover of some glossy magazine.

Messy blond hair that fell just right, like he’d rolled out of bed and it had decided to cooperate on its own. A sharp jawline softened by a lazy, confident smile, the kind that suggested he didn’t take life—or himself—too seriously. And then there were his eyes, an arresting shade of blue that seemed to catch and hold the light, giving him an almost otherworldly quality.

“Having fun tonight?” he asked, his voice smooth, casual, as if we were old friends catching up instead of two strangers meeting for the first time.

I turned slightly toward him, offering a small, polite smile. “Trying to,” I replied, keeping my tone light.

His smile widened, and he leaned an elbow on the bar, his posture relaxed, but his attention focused entirely on me. “First time here?” he guessed, tilting his head slightly.

I nodded, taking another sip of my drink to avoid the sudden intensity of his gaze. “Yeah. My friend thought I needed a night out.”

“And do you?” he asked, raising a brow. His tone was teasing, but there was a note of genuine curiosity beneath it.

I hesitated for a moment, feeling the weight of the past few days settle heavily on my shoulders again. “Yeah,” I admitted, my voice quieter. “I guess I do.”

He didn’t press for more, which I appreciated. Instead, he launched into a story about the last time he’d been at this club. “It was my buddy’s sister’s bachelorette party,” he began, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I’d just come in for a quick drink, minding my own business, when suddenly, I’m surrounded by a group of women in matching sashes and tiaras.”

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Sounds like a nightmare.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Oh, it gets worse. They roped me into their little game—truth or dare. And, of course, I was feeling brave. Thought I could handle a dare.”

“And?” I prompted, leaning in slightly.

He smirked, clearly enjoying my curiosity. “And next thing I know, I’m on stage with a mic in my hand, singing ‘Like a Virgin.’”

I burst out laughing, unable to help myself. The image of him, confident and charming, crooning Madonna in front of a rowdy bachelorette party was too much. “Please tell me there’s video evidence.”

“Oh, there is,” he admitted with a mock groan, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s probably still circulating in some group chat somewhere, haunting me.”

His self-deprecating humor, paired with his exaggerated impressions of himself on stage, had me laughing harder than I had in days. The kind of laughter that bubbled up unexpectedly and left me a little breathless. For a moment, it felt like the weight on my shoulders had lifted.

After another shared laugh, he extended his hand, a teasing glint in his eye. “By the way, I’m Ethan. Thought I should at least introduce myself before you start digging for those karaoke videos.”

I took his hand, his grip firm and warm, and offered a small smile. “Dahlia.”

“Dahlia,” he repeated, as if testing the way my name felt on his tongue. “Pretty name.”

“Thanks,” I said, releasing his hand, though the warmth lingered. “Ethan, huh? Does the bachelorette party crew still call you ‘Like a Virgin’?”

He groaned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Don’t give them any ideas. It’s bad enough that my friends won’t let me live it down.”

I chuckled, feeling more at ease. There was something disarming about him, the way he blended charm with a healthy dose of self-awareness. It was easy to forget the world outside this moment, to forget the storm brewing just beyond the walls of the club.

“Well, Ethan,” I said, raising my glass, “here’s to surviving bachelorette parties and embarrassing karaoke performances.”

He clinked his glass against mine, his smile widening. “I’ll drink to that.”

We slipped into an easy rhythm after that, swapping stories and trading playful barbs. He told me about the quirks of the city—the secret speakeasies hidden behind unassuming doors, the street performer who swore he was Banksy, and the absurdly competitive underground ping-pong scene. In return, I told him about my mum's cafe where you could lose hours in a book or find the best pastries without breaking the bank.

Time seemed to blur as we talked. The pulsing lights and thundering music of the club faded into the background, becoming little more than a hazy soundtrack to our conversation. I found myself relaxing in his company, the tension that had been knotted in my chest for days gradually unwinding with each passing minute.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the outside world—its dangers, its secrets, its looming threats—ceased to matter. It was just us, two strangers in a crowded club, sharing pieces of our lives under the neon glow. And for that fleeting moment, it was enough.

But it didn’t last.

A flicker of unease wormed its way back into my thoughts as I glanced over my shoulder, scanning the dance floor. The colorful lights flashed across the sea of bodies, but Liz was nowhere in sight. My heart gave a tiny lurch.

“I should check on my friend,” I said, sliding off the stool and reaching for my clutch.

He tilted his head, his grin never faltering. “Don’t get lost,” he said, lifting his glass in a mock toast.

I forced a smile in return, but my mind was already elsewhere.

I returned to the dance floor, my eyes darting through the shifting crowd, searching for Liz. The music pulsed around me, the strobe lights flashing in chaotic bursts, but she was nowhere in sight. My pulse quickened, each beat out of sync with the bass thumping through the speakers. I pushed through the tightly packed bodies, calling her name, my voice swallowed by the cacophony of the club. It was like she’d vanished into thin air.

An uneasy knot tightened in my stomach as I made my way back to the bar, my thoughts racing. Maybe she’d just stepped away for a moment, I told myself. But the logical part of my brain wasn’t buying it. I pulled out my phone and dialed her number. It rang. And rang. And rang.

No answer.

A cold wave of panic washed over me, and I gripped the edge of the bar to steady myself. My breaths came shallow and fast as the worst possible scenarios played out in my head. Where is she?

And then it hit me. Kirill Petrova.

My heart plummeted. I had confessed everything to Liz—the murder, the text, the terrifying reality of what I’d witnessed. She was the only one who knew. And now, she was gone. The walls of the club seemed to close in, the flashing lights disorienting, the music pounding like a war drum in my ears. This was my fault. I had dragged her into this mess. I should have kept my mouth shut.

Fueled by a mix of fear and the alcohol buzzing through my system, I pulled up the unknown number on my phone. The one that had sent me that cryptic text. My thumb hovered over the call button, my hands trembling. I didn’t let myself think—I just pressed it.

The phone barely rang once before a voice answered, low and smooth, with a chilling calmness. “Malyshka, to what do I owe the pleasure ?”

“Mr. Petrova,” I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded despite the storm raging inside me. “Let my friend go. If you’ve hurt her—if you even think about touching her—I swear, I will find you, and I will kill you.”

There was a pause, heavy and deliberate. Then, a low chuckle. It was cold, amused. “Bold,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of admiration. “You’ve got fire. I didn’t expect that.”

“This isn’t a game,” I snapped, my grip tightening around the phone. “I want my friend back, now.”

“I don’t play games,” he replied, his tone sharp yet infuriatingly calm. “And I don’t have your friend. You’re accusing the wrong man.”

“You’re lying.” My voice wavered, but I pushed through. “You want to intimidate me? Fine. But I’m warning you—”

“You misunderstand,” he interrupted, his tone hardening. “I don’t need to lie. If I wanted to take your friend, you wouldn’t have to guess.” His words sent a shiver down my spine. “Be careful who you threaten, Malyshka.”

I ended the call, my hand shaking as I lowered the phone. My breath came in short, uneven bursts. What the hell did I just do? I had threatened Kirill Petrova—a man who could make people disappear with a snap of his fingers. My stomach twisted with regret and fear.

Before I could spiral any further, a hand clamped down on my shoulder. My entire body tensed as I spun around, heart hammering against my ribs, ready to either fight or flee.