The Mafia Don's Stolen Bride

1. Gilly

Gilly

The world outside my office window is bathed in golden Miami sunlight, the city alive with its usual rhythm—cars honking in the streets, people hurrying to their jobs, the faint hum of life beyond the glass. It should be comforting.

But it’s not.

Not today.

I keep my head down, pretending to focus on the stack of legal contracts spread across my desk, my pen tapping against the papers in an uneven rhythm. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until Claire, my paralegal, peeks her head into my office with an arched brow.

"That bad of a morning already?" she teases.

I blink, forcing a small smile. "Just trying to get through this pile before lunch."

She hums, unconvinced, but doesn’t push. "Let me know if you need anything."

I nod, watching her disappear down the hall before exhaling a slow breath. Claire doesn’t know the truth. No one here does. To them, I’m just Gilly Bellanti—the quiet, hard-working young lawyer who keeps to herself.

But I know better.

I know the second I let my guard down, my past will come rushing in, and everything I’ve built will come crashing down.

I shake the thought away and turn my attention back to my desk. My fingers brush against my coffee cup—lukewarm, untouched. A normal person would be worrying about deadlines or office gossip. Not looking over their shoulder every damn day.

I press my fingers against my temples, trying to shake the unease that’s been clawing at me since I woke up. But it’s useless.

That feeling—the one that sits like ice in my chest—is stronger today.

A warning.

I reach for my phone, my thumb hovering over the screen. I don’t even know who I’d call. The police? Useless. A lawyer? They’d ask too many questions.

No one can help me.

The thought is a familiar one, but today, it feels heavier.

Then the envelope arrives.

Claire’s voice floats through the open doorway as she returns, a thick manila envelope in her hands. She drops it on my desk with a small huff.

"Came for you. No return address."

My breath stalls.

I stare at it.

I don’t touch it.

Claire doesn’t notice my reaction. "Probably another rush contract." She rolls her eyes. "You know how these clients are. All urgent, all last-minute."

I force a nod, my body moving on autopilot as I mumble, "Yeah, probably."

Claire flashes a quick smile before disappearing again, leaving me alone with the envelope.

I should open it. I should rip it apart, confirm it’s nothing.

But I already know it’s not.

The paper feels heavier than it should as I finally reach for it. I slide a letter opener beneath the flap, my breath catching in my throat. The seal gives way with a soft tear, and my fingers slip inside, pulling out the contents.

One single photograph.

I freeze.

It’s Rafa.

His tiny frame. His unruly dark curls. His little hands clutching the worn wooden slats of the playground near our apartment.

Taken this morning.

My stomach drops.

My vision narrows.

The playground is only a few blocks from here. Too close.

He’s smiling in the picture, completely unaware that someone was watching him.

Someone who took this photo.

Someone who knows where we live.

I grip the edges of the picture so tightly my knuckles turn white. My breath comes too fast, too shallow.

No.

No.

This isn’t happening.

It’s been three years.

How the hell did they find us?

The walls of my office feel like they’re closing in.

I force myself to breathe, but my lungs are tight, my throat locked around a scream I can’t afford to let out.

The edges of the photo crumple under my grip as I scan every detail again, searching for something—anything—that tells me this is a mistake. A cruel prank. A coincidence.

But there’s nothing.

Just Rafa.

My baby. My world.

And someone else’s shadow lurking just beyond the frame.

A tremor starts in my fingers and spreads up my arms, making it harder to hold the picture steady. The office around me—the neatly stacked papers, the soft hum of distant conversations, the view of the Miami skyline beyond the window—blurs as the walls of my carefully built life fracture.

How?

How did they find us?

I planned everything. I erased every trace, buried every link to my past. I was careful—so careful.

It’s been three years.

Three years of silence. Of living small. Of never making a mistake.

And now, someone is watching.

The thought alone is enough to make bile rise in my throat. I stumble up from my chair, my legs shaky, my mind racing through a hundred possibilities, none of them good.

My purse. My keys. I need to go. Get Rafa. Get out.

But where? Where the hell can I go?

My phone vibrates against the desk, jolting me. The sharp sound rips through my spiral of panic, anchoring me to the moment. I snatch it up with trembling fingers, half-expecting an unknown number, a text, a warning.

Unknown Caller.

My stomach twists violently.

I let it ring, my thumb hovering over the screen, indecision warring with instinct. If I answer, I could confirm my worst fear. But if I don’t… what if it’s about Rafa?

The call cuts off. A second later, a notification pops up.

1 New Voicemail.

I don’t check it. I can’t. Not yet.

Instead, I shove the phone into my pocket and stumble toward the breakroom, needing a second to clear my head. The walls of my office feel too exposed, too open, and the pressure in my chest grows tighter with each passing second.

The breakroom is empty when I push through the door, the scent of burnt coffee thick in the air. The fluorescent lights overhead hum softly, too bright, too sterile.

I brace my hands against the counter, sucking in a breath, then another.

I need to think. Need to act.

Who sent the photo?

The obvious answer—the only answer—is Luca.

But that doesn’t make sense.

Luca Marchesi doesn’t warn.

He takes.

A chill creeps down my spine. If it’s not Luca, then the alternative is worse. It means someone else found us. Someone who knows exactly who Rafa is.

Who he belongs to.

My pulse pounds in my ears. I need to leave. Now.

I straighten, already planning my next move, when a voice startles me from behind.

“Gilly?”

I jerk around too fast. Claire is standing in the doorway, her brows furrowed. “Hey, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I have.

I swallow the lump in my throat, forcing my hands to unclench. “I’m fine. Just—rough morning.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push either. Instead, she hesitates, shifting on her feet. “Uh… someone’s here to see you.”

My stomach drops.

Not now. Not now.

I shake my head. “Tell them I’m busy.”

Claire hesitates again. “I would, but… I think you’ll want to take this one.”

Something about the way she says it—careful, almost nervous—sets every nerve in my body on fire.

My lips part, my voice barely a whisper. “Who is it?”

She glances toward the front lobby, then back at me.

“He says his name is Luca Marchesi.”

The name slams into me like a wrecking ball.

Luca Marchesi.

A phantom from my past. The one man I swore I’d never see again.

For a moment, I can’t move. Can’t breathe. The walls of my carefully constructed life crack open, the weight of three years of running pressing down on my chest like a heavy stone.

Claire is still standing there, oblivious to the storm raging inside me.

“Gilly?” she prompts gently. “Should I send him in?”

A laugh rises in my throat, sharp and bitter. Like I have a choice. Luca doesn’t wait for permission. If he’s here, it means he’s already decided how this is going to go.

My body finally catches up with my brain, jerking into motion. I push off the counter, smoothing my hands over my blouse as if that will erase the fact that I’m unraveling. “I’ll go to him.”

Claire blinks at me, surprised, but I don’t give her a chance to question it. My heels click against the floor as I move past her, each step toward the lobby heavier than the last.

The double glass doors leading into the reception area seem farther away than they should be. My heart hammers against my ribs, my breath shallow, but I force myself to keep moving.

And then—

I see him.

Luca.

Standing near the reception desk like he owns the damn building.

He hasn’t changed. Not really. If anything, he’s worse.

His dark, tailored suit fits him like it was sewn onto his broad frame, sharp lines sculpting power.

He is twelve years older than me. His black hair is still short, effortlessly styled, not a single strand out of place.

But it’s his eyes that make my stomach flip—sharp green, locked onto me with the same lethal intensity I remember.

He’s not surprised to see me.

He’s not angry.

He’s amused.

Like he already knew I was here. Like he’s been waiting for me to realize it.

I stop a few feet away, hating the way my hands tremble at my sides, hating that even now, after all this time, my body still remembers him.

I lift my chin, force my voice steady. “What are you doing here?”

Luca tilts his head slightly, taking me in with slow deliberation. His gaze drags over me—not in appreciation, not in lust. In possession.

As if three years apart means nothing. As if he still owns me.

His lips curve into a smirk, and when he finally speaks, his voice is smooth as silk, dark as sin.

“You’ve been a very bad girl, Gilly.”