The Runaway Bride: Trapped by the Mafia Lord

The rain was merciless.

Vivienne Moretti ran through the narrow streets of Lower Manhattan, her bare feet slapping against wet cobblestones. The silk dress her father had chosen for her engagement party was already ruined—soaked, torn at the hem, and clinging to her body like a second skin. She didn't care. She couldn't care.

Behind her, the shouts of her father's men grew closer.

"She went that way! Move!"

Her lungs burned. Her throat felt raw from the cold air. But she didn't stop.

I won't go back. I won't marry a man I've never met just so Dad can buy his way into the Blackthorne empire.

The engagement had been announced two weeks ago. Lucian Blackthorne. The name alone made the entire underworld tremble. But to Vivienne, he was just another faceless transaction. Her father, Vincent Moretti, had sold her like cargo. And tonight, at the engagement dinner, she was supposed to smile, wear the diamond necklace he'd locked around her throat, and play the grateful daughter.

Instead, she'd climbed out her bedroom window, dropped fifteen feet onto wet grass, and run.

She turned into an alley so narrow that the buildings on either side seemed to lean into each other. The rain drummed against trash bins and broken pallets. For a moment, she thought she'd lost them.

Then she heard footsteps behind her. Heavy. Deliberate.

She pressed herself against the wall, heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her teeth. A flashlight beam swept past the entrance of the alley. She held her breath.

"Check every corner," a man's voice said. "Vincent wants her back before midnight, or we're all dead."

Vivienne closed her eyes. Her father's words echoed in her head: "This marriage isn't about you, Vivienne. It's about survival. You will do this, or I swear on your mother's grave—"

Except her mother wasn't dead. Helena Moretti was locked away in a "wellness facility" her father controlled. Vivienne hadn't spoken to her in three years. Every time she asked, Vincent smiled that cold smile and said, "She's resting. You'll see her when you've earned it."

She'd earned nothing. She was just a bargaining chip.

The footsteps came closer.

Vivienne glanced deeper into the alley. The darkness seemed to swallow the rain. And then she heard something else—a wet, rhythmic sound. Like knuckles hitting flesh.

She squinted.

A man leaned against the brick wall about twenty feet ahead. He was covered in blood. Not his own, she realized. The man lying at his feet wasn't moving. Another body was crumpled near a dumpster. The stranger took a slow drag from a cigarette, the orange glow illuminating sharp cheekbones and dark eyes that watched her without surprise.

He'd known she was there the whole time.

The flashlight beam swept closer. "Hey! Anyone back there?"

Vivienne's brain scrambled for options. There were none. She could either run toward the guards or toward the bloody stranger.

She chose the devil she didn't know.

In three quick strides, she crossed the space between them, grabbed the front of his leather jacket, and yanked his face down to hers. Her lips crashed against his.

For a heartbeat, he didn't move. Then his free hand came up—not to push her away, but to cup the side of her face, shielding her features from the approaching light. His mouth tasted like smoke and copper. He was warm despite the cold rain.

"That way! Move, move!" The guards were almost at the alley entrance.

The stranger turned his head slightly, blocking her completely from view. He deepened the kiss like he'd done it a thousand times. Like she belonged to him.

Vivienne's heart hammered for an entirely different reason now.

The flashlight beam passed over them once, twice. Then: "Nothing here. Keep moving."

The footsteps faded into the rain.

The stranger pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were the color of slate in a storm—gray, cold, and unreadable. He didn't smile. Didn't ask who she was.

"You ran from something," he said. His voice was low, rough. Like he'd been screaming. Or killing. "Now they're gone. So run again."

Vivienne should have run. Every instinct told her to disappear into the night and never look back. But she was tired of running. Tired of being the daughter who obeyed, the bride who smiled, the pawn who moved when her father pushed.

"I need a place to hide," she said.

He took another drag from his cigarette. "Not my problem."

"I can pay."

He laughed—a short, humorless sound. "With what? That dress couldn't buy you a hot dog in this neighborhood."

Vivienne reached into the small clutch she'd grabbed before jumping out the window. Her fingers closed around cold metal. She pulled out a Blackthorne Industries black card. The one her father had given her "for emergencies."

Technically, this counted.

She held it up between two fingers. "I want to hire you. Bodyguard, driver, fake boyfriend—I don't care. I need to get back to my father's estate tomorrow and call off this wedding. And I can't do it alone."

The stranger's eyes flicked to the card, then back to her face. For a moment, something passed through his expression—recognition, maybe. Or amusement.

"You don't even know my name."

"Does it matter?"

He crushed his cigarette against the wall and dropped it into a puddle. "Luke," he said. "Luke Cain."

"Vivienne."

"I know who you are, princess."

Of course he did. Everyone did. The Moretti name was poison and power wrapped in one.

"Fine," she said, ignoring the chill that ran down her spine. "Luke Cain. How much for one night?"

He stared at her for a long moment. Then he grabbed her wrist—not hard, but firm—and pulled her deeper into the alley. "Let's talk terms."

Behind them, the rain washed the blood off the cobblestones.