The Mafia's Lost Bride

Ch 2 - Lost

Elena’s heart pounded in her chest long after Dante Luciano had left her room with his assistant trailing silently behind. His words echoed in her head, repeating like a mantra she didn’t quite know how to hold on to: Get ready. Come with me.

Her mind was still blank, wiped clean like a hard drive. She tried, once again, to claw at some corner of memory, some fragment of who she was beyond the name that had sprung unbidden to her lips—Elena. Nothing came. Only the silence of emptiness that made her chest constrict with fear.

Reluctantly, her trembling hands reached for the simple dress folded neatly at the edge of the bed. It wasn’t hers—at least, she didn’t remember it being hers—but it was the only thing she had. She slipped into it, her fingers fumbling at the buttons, her movements stiff with dread. The reflection in the mirror startled her for a second: golden hair that fell softly around her shoulders, green eyes that looked far too wide, far too fragile. She almost didn’t recognize the face staring back.

When she stepped out into the corridor, she found the assistant waiting—tall, polite, with a reserved expression. His dark suit looked far too serious for the sterile white walls of the hospital. He gave her a short nod, his voice calm, measured, as if he’d done this a hundred times before.

“Go to the main entrance,” he instructed. “I’ll bring the car around.”

Her lips parted to protest, to tell him she had no idea where that was, but he had already turned and walked briskly away. She stared after him, frozen.

The main entrance? Where is that?

Her pulse spiked. Her palms grew damp. She looked around, the hallway stretching in two directions, both foreign, both equally unfriendly. The panic rose quickly, sharp and suffocating. She pressed a hand to her chest as if she could calm the frantic rhythm of her heart, but it only worsened.

She chose one path. Wrong. It ended in a storage room.

She tried another. Wrong again—just a stairwell leading to nowhere she recognized.

The hospital seemed to close in around her. Each fluorescent light overhead buzzed, each empty corridor echoing with her quick steps. Her breathing became uneven, her eyes stinging with frustrated tears.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she saw a faint stream of sunlight ahead. Her steps quickened. Relief swelled in her chest as she pushed through one last set of double doors and found herself at the main entrance.

And there he was.

Dante Luciano.

He stood at the top of the wide stone stairs, phone pressed to his ear. Even in the middle of a conversation, his presence dominated, commanding attention without effort. His dark suit was sharp, tailored perfectly to his tall frame, his stance exuding authority. His expression was unreadable, but the moment his gaze lifted and found her, his voice faltered for the briefest second.

Elena froze under his stare. It was piercing, unwavering, as if he were peeling back every layer she had and seeing straight into her. She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry, before forcing herself to move forward.

One step. Two. Her hands gripped the railing as though it might steady her.

Then it happened.

Her foot caught the edge of a stair, and with a startled gasp, she pitched forward.

It was instinct—nothing more—that had Dante moving in an instant. His arm shot out, strong and sure, catching her around the waist as she stumbled. Her hands clutched desperately at his shoulders, her body colliding with his as he steadied her effortlessly.

For one breathless moment, she was pressed against him, close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne—dark, clean, expensive. Her heart thundered against her ribs, her green eyes flying up to meet his.

His grip on her waist tightened, holding her firmly upright. But instead of reassurance, his words came clipped, sharp, laced with an arrogance that made her flush.

“Stop being clumsy,” he said coolly, his dark eyes narrowing as if her fall had been an inconvenience rather than an accident.

Heat rose to her cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and indignation. She wanted to pull away, to argue, to say it wasn’t my fault. But the weight of his stare, the sheer intensity of it, kept her quiet.

She only nodded, muttering softly, “Sorry.”

His gaze lingered a beat longer, unreadable. Then, as if dismissing the incident entirely, Dante released her, his hand falling from her waist. Without another word, he turned and descended the remaining stairs, expecting her to follow.

Elena’s knees still felt weak, her heart still racing, but she forced herself to move. Every step beside him reminded her of the truth: she was in the company of a stranger who claimed to be her fiancé… a stranger who felt both intimidating and magnetic, whose presence rattled her more than the emptiness of her own mind.

And she had no choice but to follow.