Mistaken Bride Of The Mafia CEO

Raven, 25

“No.”

The word shot out of my mouth before I could soften it, sharp, loud, and echoing across the polished conference room. Six faces stared back at me, all dressed in matching suits, all looking equally offended that I, the broke bakery girl begging for investment, dared to reject them.

The only woman among them blinked rapidly, recovering her voice before the rest.

“Mrs. Statham… please sit.”

I remained standing. “Do any of you actually hear yourselves?” I asked, sweeping my glare across the long metal table, the framed certificates on their walls, the ridiculous vase of fake orchids by the window. “Two thousand dollars? For a bakery that has been in my family for three generations?”

They shifted uncomfortably on their seats.

One of the men cleared his throat and tried to lean forward like he was being sympathetic. “Given the state of the business, we believe our offer is—”

“Insulting,” I finished for him. “You believe your offer is insulting, and that's absolutely correct. How dare you think you can throw me anything and I'll gladly accept it? This isn't why I'm here.”

He stiffened. The woman sighed and another man scribbled something, probably marking me as unstable, unprofessional, or has pulse. Whatever worked for them.

I pointed at each of them one by one. “You, yes you,” I pointed to the only woman among them. “Do you even know how many ovens a bakery needs to operate?” I pointed at another, my anger simmering beneath the surface, “you haven’t smiled once since I stepped in, so you clearly hate your job. And you—” I turned to the man who had tried to ‘sympathize,’ “need to work on your fake empathy because it’s leaking from your pores.”

They all stared at me like I had grown horns, the shock was evident.

“You want my grandmother’s bakery for cheap so you can flip it for profit,” I said, grabbing my folder. “Which is fine. Whatever, but don’t pretend you’re trying to help me.”

When one of them tried to speak again, I cut him off with a raised hand. “Save it. I’ll write about this pathetic circus on every review page I can find online.”

Then I lifted my middle finger and walked out before any of them could stop me.

Cameron was already waiting outside the glass doors, arms crossed like some dramatic guardian, her eyes brightened. “How did it go?”

I just stared at her, my best friend and favorite cousin.

“Oh…” She winced. “That bad, huh?”

I kept walking, and she hurried after me through the hall, into the elevator, and down the underground parking lot.

“Raven? Raven, talk to me—”

I stopped beside my grandmother’s rickety yellow car, the one I refused to ever give up, even though one of the side mirrors was literally taped on. I slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door, breathing through my annoyance while my cousin leaned on the window, watching me cautiously.

I finally rolled it down. “Meet me at the bar. After the disaster you dragged me into, I need a drink.”

She nodded quickly. “Okay. I’ll call Eric too.”

Just as I turned the key, my phone buzzed, a message from Priscilla, one of my staff.

Priscilla: The bakery oven just broke down.

“Of course it did,” I muttered, slamming my head gently against the steering wheel.

---

Our usual bar was almost empty when I arrived, thank God. The warm lights, old wooden floors, and faint smell of beer always reminded me of late-night study sessions and terrible decisions. My cousin and her boyfriend, Eric—my closest friend, were already waiting.

Eric slid a beer toward me. “Tell us everything.”

I took a long gulp. “They tried to buy Grandma’s bakery for two thousand dollars.”

“What?” Cameron shrieked, loud enough for the bartender to look up.

“Exactly.” I downed half the bottle. “Apparently, my grandmother’s legacy is worth the price of a second-hand mattress.”

Cameron stretched her hands towards me, her fingers gently caressing my wrist. A way of consoling.

  “I'm so sorry, Rae. I've no idea the company will flip this into buying rather than investing.”

I nodded at her, she was only trying to help, as I couldn't get a loan from every bank I applied to.

Eric’s expression softened. “Rae… What are you going to do? You’ve got one week until your mom takes over.”

I sighed and rubbed my face. “I know.”

My mother didn’t believe in my dream. Never had. She believed in practical careers—office work, clothing businesses, things with predictable outcomes. My baking? A hobby at best and a failure at worst.

Two years ago, we’d made a deal: I’d prove the bakery could thrive, or she would sell it. And now? I was barely holding it together.

My cousin touched my shoulder. “Will you just, you know… sell it? Or ask your mum for help?”

I snapped my eyes open. “Absolutely not!” I paused, “I still have one option left.”

They both leaned in like curious meerkats.

“I applied to D’Angelo Corporation,” I said proudly. “You know, they invest in small businesses, and if I get a loan or partnership with them, the bakery stays alive.”

Eric blinked. “The D’Angelo Corporation? The same Mafia one?”

My cousin kicked him under the table. “Don’t say Mafia out loud! You might get in trouble.”

“Well, it’s the truth,” Eric whispered. “Their CEO is basically a ghost. No one has seen his face, not to mention the popular rumors backing his identity.”

“Like you said, they're just rumors,” I replied with false confidence. “They’re professional. I did my research.”

And maybe the part about the CEO being feared internationally… I tried not to think about it.

Before they could say more, my phone beeped.

I jolted so hard I almost knocked my bottle over.

D’ANGELO CORPORATION flashed across the screen.

D’ANGELO ENTERPRISES:

Dear Miss Statham, we are pleased to inform you that your application has been reviewed. You are hereby invited to present your proposal for an interview tomorrow at 9:00 AM.

“Oh my God. Oh my fucking God!” I yelled, letting out a ridiculous squeal. “They want to see me! They want me. Finally!”

The whole bar turned to stare, and I didn’t care—I was too thrilled. Cameron and Eric bowed and waved slightly at the stares, mouthing apologies on my behalf before turning right back at me, wide greens on their faces.

  “That's great! Eventually, some good news. I'm more certain this is it.” Eric chipped in, and Cameron nodded.

I smiled at them, then hugged Eric and my cousin, carried my bag, then stood up so fast my chair screeched. “I’m going home to prepare. Don’t worry—I’ll take a cab, I haven’t been drinking enough to fall into a ditch.”

My cousin raised a brow. “Rae, are you sure you don’t want me to come help? The D’Angelo CEO is literally the most feared man from Russia to Washington.”

“I already prepared everything. Research, documents, portfolio. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay… but…”

“I'm good Can, seriously, I don't want to jinx this.”

Cameron smiled. “Fine, be careful.”

I kissed her cheek and hurried outside to order my ride.

I didn’t even get to click confirm when someone suddenly yanked my purse off my shoulder.

“Hey!” I shouted as the thief sprinted toward the dark alley behind the bar.

He wore a long black jacket, messy dark hair, and glasses. His eyes had been a sharp blue—wide with panic, not sophistication.

“Bring that back!” I shouted, running after him.

But he darted down a shadowy path, swallowed instantly by darkness.

I stopped at the entrance, breath harsh, my fingers digging into my hair as frustration burned through me. My phone was in my hand, thankfully, but everything else he had just stolen. —bakery keys, car keys and credit cards—were gone.

“Just great,” I muttered, considering calling my cousin back out to help.

Before I could press a contact, someone walked out of the same alley, wearing the same long black jacket, same quiet stride, and his hands tucked inside his pockets like someone with no single worry in life.

I didn’t stop to think, I charged forward furiously. To think he had thought I left.

“You!” I yelled. “Give me back my purse!”

Years of father’s martial-arts drills kicked in, and I launched a tornado kick at his neck. He slipped to the side calmly, almost lazily, easily dodging it. My heel grazed his jaw, and I hit the ground in a very ungraceful heap.

But I sprang back up, fists raised. “You petty thief,” I snapped, breathing hard. “After I'm done with you, you will know not to mess with girls like me.”

The man stared at me, unmoved.

But as I glared properly at him, something felt wrong. This man wasn’t the same. He was taller, broader and his presence alone felt dangerous in a way the actual thief hadn’t. And he was—unfortunately—ridiculously good-looking, with an intimidating calmness that made my anger burn hotter.

He just stood there, hands deep in his pockets, staring at me through those dark lenses with a blankness that annoyed me more than the theft.

I pointed at him, still trying to find the right threat. “You don't act like—”

“Move aside.” His voice erupted, coldly, like I was nothing more than an object blocking his part.

I blinked, completely stunned. Did he just ask me to move? A thief with such annoying audacity?

My anger, already huge, doubled. “Return my purse right now or—”

I shifted my weight, ready to strike when rapid footsteps echoed from behind him. Another man burst out of the alley, dragging someone who looked half dead, limbs limp, shirt torn and face buried. The newcomer’s jacket was splattered with a little dirt, his eyes cold as he dropped the half-conscious man at my feet.

I stumbled back with a gasp.

The newcomer bowed his head slightly. “Boss.”

Boss?

Boss?!

Someone beaten to a pump lies motionless at my feet like a corpse, and this man—this arrogant statue I had tried to kick—was apparently the one in charge?

The arrogant thief tilted his head toward me, his voice icy. “Identify him.”

Identify what? My brain short-circuited.

I opened my mouth, half-prepared to say something reckless, when the newcomer tossed my purse at my feet.

I froze, looked down. Then at the almost-dead guy. Then at them. Then at my purse, clenched in-between my fingers.

The thief was the guy on the ground, and good Lord, I had just assaulted an entirely different man. A completely innocent—well, not so innocent-looking—man.

“Oh my God,” I whispered, my hand on my lips. “Oh my God.”

Flustered, I clasped my hands together and bowed awkwardly. “Sir, I mean, look, that was a misunderstanding. You both wore the same jacket and glasses, so I assumed—”

But before I could finish explaining, the man simply turned and walked away, cold and silent, the newcomer falling in step behind him.

I stared after him, heat rising in my cheeks. “Jackass,” I muttered under my breath.