Runaway Mistress: The Mafia Boss Begs On His Knees

Dante POV

"You may kiss the bride."

The words were a sentence, not a blessing.

Sofia leaned in. She reeked of expensive perfume and triumph.

Her lips touched mine, but I didn't close my eyes.

Instead, I stared blankly over her shoulder at the stained glass window, waiting for a bolt of lightning to strike me down for my hypocrisy.

She deepened the kiss, putting on a show for the cameras, and my stomach turned.

I pulled away abruptly.

The applause was deafening. It sounded like static in my ears, a white noise of meaningless noise.

We walked back down the aisle.

Rice rained down on us, stinging my skin like gravel.

Outside, the limo was waiting.

"Get in," Sofia said, waving to the crowd with a practiced smile.

I stopped.

I tore off my bow tie and unbuttoned my collar, desperate for air.

"Go to the reception," I said.

"What?" Sofia's smile faltered. "You have to cut the cake."

"I have business," I said cold.

"Dante!" she hissed, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Don't you dare embarrass me."

I turned on my heel, ignoring her.

I walked past the limo to my personal Aston Martin parked at the curb.

I got in and slammed the door, shutting out the world.

I peeled away from the curb, leaving my bride standing on the sidewalk in her ten-thousand-dollar dress.

I didn't care.

I drove like a madman, fueled by adrenaline and self-loathing.

I blew through red lights and wove through traffic with a death wish.

The need to see Elena was a physical pain, an ache in my bones.

I needed to wash the taste of Sofia off my mouth.

I needed to hold Elena and ground myself.

I pulled up to the estate, tires screeching on the pavement.

The guards at the gate looked surprised to see me.

"Where is she?" I barked as I rolled down the window.

"Miss Russo?" the guard stammered. "She's in her room, Boss. We haven't seen her come out."

"Good."

I parked the car haphazardly on the lawn and sprinted into the house.

I took the stairs two at a time.

I reached the hallway to the servants' quarters.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

I unlocked her door.

"Elena?"

I pushed the door open.

The room was pristine.

The bed was made. The closet door was open.

It was empty.

My clothes-the designer pieces I had bought for her-were hanging there like ghosts.

The jewelry box sat on the dresser, closed.

"Elena!" I shouted.

I checked the bathroom. Empty.

I checked under the bed. Empty.

Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through my gut like a knife.

I ran back into the hallway.

"Isabella!" I roared.

My mother appeared at the end of the hall. She was still wearing her mother-of-the-groom dress.

She didn't look surprised.

"Where is she?" I demanded, marching up to her and grabbing her by the shoulders. "Where did you hide her?"

Isabella looked at me calmly.

"She is gone, Dante."

"Gone where?"

"Away. She left."

I shook her.

"You lie!" I snatched her phone from her hand. "She has no money. She has nowhere to go."

Isabella reached into her purse.

She pulled out a piece of paper.

"She chose this, Dante. You broke her. And now she is free."

I stared at the paper.

It was a page torn from a notebook.

My hands shook as I took it.

It felt heavy.

It felt like a death warrant.