The Reluctant Mafia Bride

Episode 2

Dahlia’s Pov

My breath caught in my throat as I stared into Mr. Scott’s office, the scene before me so surreal, so impossible, that for a moment, I wasn’t sure I was seeing it at all.

Mr. Scott was slumped in his chair, bound and bloodied. His usually neat appearance was now a nightmare of bruises and swelling. His face, once ruddy and sharp, was now distorted, his eyes swollen nearly shut, his lip split, and a deep purple bruise marred his cheek. The man who prided himself on his power and control now looked pitiful, vulnerable, as if all that bravado had been stripped away in a matter of minutes. His hands were tied behind his back, his mouth stuffed with a gag that made his mumbled pleas unintelligible. Fear radiated from him, his wide eyes darting frantically from one figure to another.

Standing around him were three men in black suits, their presence overwhelming in the sterile office. They were all eerily calm, unmoving, as if they were used to scenes like this. But the man in the middle was the one who commanded attention. He was huge, towering over the others, with broad shoulders that seemed to fill the space. His black hair, shoulder-length and tied back in a no-nonsense ponytail, gave him an almost primal look, but his face remained hidden in the shadows. He didn’t speak at first, but his posture radiated authority—his very stillness sent a chill down my spine.

The man in the middle, whom I assumed was the leader, finally spoke, his voice low and deadly, a quiet promise that made the air in the room thicken with tension. “Nobody steals from me and lives,” he said, his words hanging in the air like a death sentence.

My heart pounded in my chest as the man to his right stepped forward, handing him a gun. It was sleek, dark, and menacing, and the silencer attached to it made the weapon look all the more lethal. The leader gripped the gun with cold precision, turning it towards Mr. Scott. The sight of that gun aimed directly at the helpless man’s forehead made my legs feel weak, like the floor was no longer solid beneath me.

I stood there, frozen in a cocktail of shock and horror, unable to look away. Even though Mr. Scott was everything I despised—arrogant, cruel, and far too comfortable with his power—I never imagined something like this. No one deserved to die like this, least of all him. But in that moment, none of that mattered. The air was thick with the finality of what was about to happen.

Mr. Scott’s muffled cries became more frantic as his wide, panicked eyes searched desperately for a way out. His body jerked, trying to break free from his restraints, but the men around him stood motionless, as though they were part of the cold, dark decor of the office. He was powerless.

The leader leaned in closer, his voice barely a whisper, but every word hit like a sledgehammer. “See you in hell,” he said to Mr. Scott, the words dripping with malice.

And then, without any more hesitation, the leader pulled the trigger.

The shot came like a whisper, almost imperceptible, the silencer reducing the explosion of the gunpowder to a faint, muffled pop. But the result was unmistakable. A thin spray of blood splattered across the walls, the desk, the scattered papers that once seemed so innocuous. The bullet hit Mr. Scott square between the eyes, the force of it throwing his head back, blood spilling over the chair and pooling around him. His body jerked once before going still, his lifeless eyes staring into nothingness.

The men around him didn’t move. They stood, cold and detached, as if this was just another part of their business, the silence afterward heavier than the shot itself.

I stood there, shaking, unable to process what I had just witnessed. The cold, unfeeling nature of it all—the ease with which the leader had executed his sentence—made my blood run cold.

I couldn’t hold it in. The scream tore out of me, loud and frantic, a raw, uncontrollable sound that filled the air. The men’s heads snapped toward me in unison, their eyes wide with disbelief, as though they hadn’t even realized I was standing there, frozen in the doorway. Time seemed to stretch in those few moments as they stared at me, their expressions a mix of surprise and calculation.

But it was the man who had just killed Mr. Scott that held my attention. His icy grey eyes locked onto mine with a coldness that made my blood run cold. His face was expressionless, but the long scar running down his left brow seemed to sneer at me, as if mocking my very existence. It was a face that seemed carved out of stone, hardened by years of violence.

I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Instinct took over. Without a second thought, my body turned, my feet pounding against the floor as I fled. My heart was hammering in my chest, each beat like a drum in my ears, drowning out everything else. My breath was shallow, ragged, panic rising in my throat like a choking cloud. I didn’t dare look back—at least, not until I was halfway down the hall.

I glanced over my shoulder, expecting to see them on my heels, but to my shock, they weren’t chasing me. They were just standing there, watching me go. It made no sense. Why weren’t they coming after me? The thought only added to the confusion swirling in my mind, but I didn’t dare slow down to think about it.

I kept running, each step a frantic attempt to escape the nightmare unfolding behind me. My legs felt heavy, like they weren’t mine, but I pushed through, my breath coming in quick bursts. The elevator doors loomed ahead, offering a brief glimpse of safety. My fingers fumbled for the button, slamming it with a desperate urgency. The doors closed behind me with a soft swish, the dull hum of the elevator suddenly deafening in the enclosed space.

I pressed myself against the wall, trying to steady my breathing, but the fear was suffocating. My pulse was racing, my skin slick with cold sweat, my body trembling like a leaf caught in a storm. The world felt too small in the elevator, the air too thick. My mind was spinning, replaying the scene I had just witnessed over and over again. Mr. Scott’s lifeless body, the blood—so much blood—splattering across the room. The sharp crack of the silenced gunshot. And that man, the one with the cold, calculating stare.

I could still see his eyes. Feel the weight of them on me, even now. It was like a predator had locked onto its prey, and I was the prey. The thought of what could have happened if I had been just a moment too slow, just a second too late—it made my stomach lurch.

The elevator descended slowly, far too slowly, my heart thumping against my ribs like it wanted to break free. I wanted to scream, to yell, to do something, anything to release the pressure building inside me. But all I could do was stand there, panting, my hands shaking, my mind screaming for answers that I didn’t have.

The elevator finally gave a small jolt, signaling that I had reached the ground floor. I didn’t even wait for the doors to fully open before I bolted out, my heart still hammering in my chest. The lobby was eerily quiet, far too empty for a place like Alistair & Co. There wasn’t a single guard at the security desk, no staff rushing by in the usual frantic pace. The usual buzz of office chatter was absent, replaced by a suffocating silence. I couldn’t make sense of it, but there was no time to dwell on it. My breath came in quick, shallow bursts as I pushed open the glass doors and rushed outside.

I didn’t care who saw me; I didn’t care about anything but getting away. I hailed a cab as soon as I stepped onto the street, the yellow vehicle screeching to a halt in front of me almost immediately. I didn’t even give the driver a chance to ask where I was headed. “The police station,” I blurted out, my voice shaky.

The driver nodded and pulled into traffic, but my thoughts were miles away. As the cab sped through the city, I sank back against the seat, trying to calm the storm swirling inside me. My hands were trembling, and I had to force myself to take deep breaths to slow my racing heart. What I had just witnessed—what I had just been forced to witness—was impossible to wrap my mind around. I had been in a state of shock, barely able to comprehend the violence I had seen. Mr. Scott’s blood had splattered across the walls in a gruesome display, his body crumpled in that chair, and those men, those cold, ruthless men... they hadn’t even hesitated. I had to report this. I couldn’t just let it go.