The Mafia’s Runaway Bride

(ROSA’s POV)

The bass pounded in my chest, loud and unrelenting.

Cigar smoke curled through the air, mixing with the scent of expensive whiskey and something filthier; the raw hunger of men who had too much power and no control.

I adjusted the flimsy mask covering half my face, my fingers trembling. It wouldn’t do much if someone looked too closely, but it gave me a false sense of security.

That was all I needed.

Just one night.

One chance to make enough for Sofia’s surgery.

“Get up there, Rosa.”

Liana’s sharp whisper cut through my hesitation as she grabbed my wrist, her nails digging in. She was the one who got me this job.

“These men are loaded,” she hissed. “Dance like you used to, and they’ll throw money like it’s nothing.”

My stomach twisted. But I forced my feet to move.

The music shifted, slow and sultry, thick with expectation. The dim lights flickered over the crowd, revealing rows of eager eyes, waiting.

I gripped the pole, my heart hammering.

This wasn’t me.

I didn’t do this.

Then I saw Sofia’s face in my mind; small, fragile, hooked up to those cold machines.

My hesitation disappeared.

I moved.

My hips swayed to the rhythm. My hands traced down my body, each movement calculated, each step a mask. Cheers erupted. Money rained down.

I didn’t look at them. I couldn’t.

The mask gave me just enough courage to pretend I wasn’t here— to ignore the way their eyes devoured me, how their fingers twitched, aching to touch.

A thick stack of hundred-dollar bills caught my eye.

At the front, an older man with slicked-back hair grinned, waving the money like bait. His dark eyes gleamed with something ugly.

I forced my feet forward, twirling just out of reach, playing along, ignoring the sickness crawling under my skin.

Then his hand grabbed my waist.

“Come here, Bella,” he murmured, pulling me against him “I am Don Bianchi,”

I froze. His body pressed into mine, his breath hot and thick with whiskey.

When his hand cupped my breast, something inside me snapped.

I slapped him.

Hard.

The music screeched to a halt.

Silence.

The club held its breath.

For a second, the don did nothing. Then his face twisted; rage and humiliation. His fingers clamped around my wrist, yanking me forward.

“You little whore—”

Before he could finish, his men moved.

Hands grabbed at me, rough and punishing. Panic exploded in my chest.

No.

No, no, no.

I fought, but there were too many. My mask slipped, falling away.

And the moment my face was exposed, I heard it.

A voice.

Low. Cold. Deadly.

“Let. Her. Go.”

The entire club went still.

The hands on me vanished instantly, as if burned. The men who had been ready to rip me apart stumbled back, their eyes wide with something close to fear.

“Mr. Moretti,” someone gasped.

And then I saw him.

Vincenzo Moretti.

His name alone carried weight, whispered in fear and respect.

He stood at the edge of the room, dressed in black, his powerful frame rigid, his dark eyes locked onto me.

My heart stopped.

I knew that face. I knew those eyes.

Oh, God.

Vincenzo!

My past. My greatest mistake. My first love.

His face was unreadable, but the fire in his gaze told me everything I needed to know.

He recognized me.

Before I could react, he moved.

The don barely got a word out before Vincenzo’s hand wrapped around his throat and slammed him into the nearest table.

Glass shattered.

A strangled gasp filled the air.

No one dared to interfere.

Vincenzo leaned in, his fingers tightening around the man's throat with terrifying control. The don choked, clawing at his grip, but Vincenzo didn’t budge.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned his head, and our eyes met.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

I forgot how to breathe.

His dark gaze burned into me, a violent storm raging beneath the surface. His jaw tightened, his nostrils flared, and for a moment, I swore I saw something dangerous flicker in his eyes.

Not just rage.

Recognition. Hunger. Possession.

I felt exposed beneath his stare.

Branded.

Claimed.

His fingers twitched slightly around the Don’s throat, betraying the restraint he was barely holding onto.

Then, with terrifying ease, he let go.

The Don crumpled to the floor, gasping, clutching his neck.

Vincenzo didn’t look at him.

No.

His attention was on me.

Only me.

And when he took a step forward, my entire body locked up.

I should run.

I should fight.

But I did neither.

The club watched in stunned silence as he reached for my wrist. His grip was firm. Unyielding.

Before I could protest, he pulled me away.

Away from the stage.

Away from the club.

Away from the life I had been barely holding together.

My body followed on instinct.

My mind screamed at me to stop.

But my heart, the foolish, reckless thing, knew there was no escaping Vincenzo Moretti.

Not this time.