The Mafia's Lost Bride

Ch 6 - The Dream

Elena stayed frozen against the wall long after the sound of his footsteps faded into silence. Her chest heaved, each breath shallow, broken, as if she’d run for miles. Slowly, she slid down to the cold floor, her arms wrapping around her knees as though to shield herself from the violent memory of his grip.

Tears welled up and spilled over her cheeks, hot trails of despair she couldn’t hold back. She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes, muffling the soft sobs that escaped her.

That couldn’t be right. He couldn’t be my fiancé. A man doesn’t treat the woman he intends to marry like this.

Her trembling hand lifted, brushing against the ring that gleamed faintly in the moonlight. It sat heavy on her finger, mocking her with its promise of devotion. She stared at it through her tears, her breath catching.

If Dante Luciano wasn’t her fiancé… then why had he said he was?

And if he was, then what kind of engagement was this?

Her thoughts spun, colliding and twisting in her mind like shards of broken glass. Nothing made sense. Her heart whispered that there was something terribly wrong, that the truth was being hidden from her—yet her memory, her only ally, betrayed her with its silence.

“I need answers,” she whispered into the darkness, her voice hoarse and unsteady. “But how… how do I find them, when I don’t even know who I am?”

Her gaze fell to the door. Dante’s shadow lingered there, even in absence. She shivered, curling tighter into herself. Whatever he was hiding, whatever that locked room contained, it was dangerous.

And somehow, she knew… so was he.

Still, her eyes returned to the ring. Its diamond caught the faintest glimmer, as though daring her to seek the truth.

She exhaled shakily. If I can’t trust him… then I’ll find out on my own.

~~~~~~~~

Sleep did not come easily. Even after the exhaustion of fear and tears, Elena lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling of her unfamiliar bedroom. The silence of the mansion pressed down on her, heavy and suffocating. Eventually, her body surrendered, dragging her into restless slumber.

But peace never followed.

A scream tore through the haze of her dream. Her scream.

Her knees hit the ground in a blur of chaos, her arms wrapped around a man’s body. His shirt was soaked with crimson, warm blood seeping through her fingers as she pressed desperately against the wound in his chest.

“No! No, stay with me!” Her voice broke, rising above the distant echo of gunshots. The metallic scent of blood overwhelmed her, filling her nose, burning her throat.

The man’s face was blurred, indistinct, no matter how hard she tried to focus. Just the weight of him in her lap. The lifeless slack of his body. The way the warmth was leaving him by the second.

Her cries rose higher, raw anguish ripping from her chest until her throat felt torn. She screamed his name—except the sound dissolved before reaching her ears, like her mind refused to let her hear it.

All that remained was the image of her bloodstained hands and the hollow ache in her chest.

Elena jerked awake, her body drenched in sweat, her heart hammering so violently it rattled her ribs. Her hand shot out instinctively to clutch her chest, but there was nothing—no blood, no body, no gunshots.

Her room was quiet. Still.

It was just a dream.

A shaky sob escaped her as she buried her face in her palms, tears sliding hot and fast down her cheeks. Her chest ached as though she had truly lost someone, the anguish clinging even after the nightmare dissolved.

But it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

She wiped her face with trembling hands, forcing herself to breathe.

Yet, as she lay back against the pillows, eyes wide and sleepless, the image of bloodstained hands refused to fade.

She stared at the ceiling until morning light seeped in through the curtains, her mind haunted and her heart hollow.

And deep inside, she knew—

That dream wasn’t just a dream.

~~~~~~

The morning light did little to soften the heaviness clinging to Elena. Her reflection in the mirror had startled her—pale face, shadows beneath her eyes, lips pressed thin. She had washed away the tear stains, but nothing could erase the hollowness left behind by the dream.

When she stepped into the hall, one of the maids paused mid-step, concern flickering across her features.

“Miss Elena,” she asked softly, “are you… feeling unwell?”

Elena forced a small, brittle smile and shook her head. “I’m fine,” she lied. Her throat tightened around the words. The maid didn’t look convinced but lowered her eyes respectfully and moved on.

By the time Elena reached the dining room, the long table was already set. Dante sat at the head, his presence filling the room even without a word spoken. His phone rested on the table beside his untouched coffee, his eyes sharp as always.

Isabella, however, brightened the moment Elena walked in. The little girl squealed and patted the empty chair beside her. “Ms. Elena! Sit here! Next to me!”

Elena managed a smile and obliged, lowering herself into the seat.

But before she could take a sip of water, Isabella leaned closer, her tiny brows knitting together. “Why do you look sad?” she asked innocently, her voice laced with worry. “Your eyes are puffy. Did you cry? Did Uncle scold you?”

The words hit Elena like a knife to her chest. Her heart stuttered, her eyes widening. She opened her mouth to deny it—but the weight of Dante’s gaze froze her.

Across the table, Dante’s eyes flicked up, locking onto hers. There was a warning in them, a sharp reminder of the night before. Elena quickly looked down, her pulse racing.

Then his niece tugged at his sleeve, waiting for his answer.

“Uncle? Did you scold her?”

The silence stretched.

Finally, Dante’s voice cut through the tension, low and measured. “No,” he said, his tone deceptively calm. His gaze lingered on Elena, unreadable and heavy. “I did no such thing.”

Isabella’s smile returned at once, satisfied with the answer, but Elena’s heart was pounding in her chest. She clenched her hands beneath the table, wondering if anyone else could feel the lie hanging thick in the air.

And for the first time, she realized Dante Luciano was not just hiding something—he was masking it with the same ease he breathed.