The Mafia's Lost Bride

Her eyes fluttered open to blinding white light. A strange ceiling stretched above her, one she didn’t recognize, sterile and unfamiliar. Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths as panic crawled up her throat. Where… was she? Her mind felt empty, wiped clean like a hard drive. No memories. No names. Nothing. Only fear. The sudden sound of footsteps made her jolt. The door clicked open. Two men stepped into the room. The first man stopped by the door, tall and commanding, his sharp features carved in arrogance. His mere presence made the air in the room heavy, knocking the breath right out of her chest. He didn’t rush to her side; instead, he watched her, his gaze like steel, confident and unyielding. Beside him stood another man, slightly younger, less intimidating. He hovered a step behind, uncertain, as though awaiting permission to even breathe. Her pulse spiked. She scrambled upright, clutching the sheets like armor. “Wh–who am I?” she choked out, her voice trembling. For a heartbeat, silence pressed between them. Then—like a bulb flickering to life—a name burst inside her head. It slipped past her lips before she even realized she was speaking. “Elena.” Her voice cracked. “Elena… Elena.” She repeated it, wide-eyed, clinging to the single fragment of identity that had sparked to life. The man at the door tilted his head, his lips curving faintly, almost as if amused. “Yes,” he said smoothly. “That’s your name.” Relief crashed into her, her panic easing just enough for her to catch her breath. If he said it was true, then it must be. For some reason, she trusted him, as if her soul recognized him even though her mind didn’t. Her throat tightened. “Who are you?” she whispered, her gaze fixed on him. That was when she noticed it. The glint of a ring on her left hand, catching the sterile light. Her breath stuttered as she lifted her trembling fingers. An engagement ring. His eyes flickered to the diamond, and his answer came without hesitation. “I’m your fiancé.” The words hung in the air, cold and final. Her heart thudded, but her mind remained a blank void. Nothing came back. No memories. No shared laughter, no stolen kisses, no tender moments. Only emptiness. She blinked at him, her throat dry. “Then… what happened to me?” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “An accident,” he said softly, almost tenderly. But his gaze never wavered, sharp and unreadable. “But don’t worry, Elena. You’re safe now.” Safe. The word echoed inside her, though her gut twisted with unease. Because something told her that the truth was far more dangerous than the lie. Her lips parted as she studied him, the tension in the room so thick it nearly suffocated her. “You told me your role in my life,” she whispered, her voice fragile. “But… what’s your name?” For a moment, he didn’t answer. He simply stood there, arms loosely at his sides, eyes narrowed slightly as though he were reading her, stripping her soul bare. His silence stretched until she fidgeted beneath the weight of his stare. Was she pretending? Or had she truly lost everything? Finally, his voice cut through the air, low and controlled, every syllable deliberate. “Dante Luciano.” His full name. Quiet, yet heavy with power. Elena blinked, letting the name settle in her chest, tasting it on her tongue without speaking it. Something about it rang with danger, but she only gave a small nod, her gaze lingering on him as though memorizing his face. Dante’s jaw tightened as he studied her in return. Golden hair spilled over her shoulders in messy waves, catching the light like spun sunlight. Her eyes—green, deep as emerald glass—watched him with innocence and confusion, as if she had no idea who he truly was. She looked ethereal, almost angelic, so heartbreakingly out of place in his dark world. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t seen beauty before. He had bedded women more than most men could count—models, heiresses, starlets who begged for his attention. Yet none of them had ever stolen his breath the way she just had, lying there in frailty and uncertainty, clutching the sheets like a frightened dove. Dante couldn’t look away. “Sir,” his assistant’s hesitant voice broke the silence. The younger man shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat. “We’re… we’re late for the meeting.” The words snapped Dante back to the present. His gaze lingered on Elena for a beat longer, reluctant, before he finally tore it away. He exhaled slowly, forcing control back into his veins. “Get ready,” Dante said, his tone clipped, almost businesslike now. His eyes flicked back to her, softer but no less commanding. “You’re coming with me.” ~~~~~~