Escaping the Mafia Don on His Wedding Day

"Stay in the apartment," he said, straightening his tie as I fixed his collar. "I'll be back tonight." Then he walked out the door — straight to his wedding. What he didn't know was that my flight was already booked.

For three years I was his canary: locked in a penthouse, the only woman he let close when he bled, forgotten the moment another woman entered the room. I watched him let her wipe the blood from his face. I lost our child alone on a cold floor. I apologized to the woman who destroyed my mother's watch.

I was done waiting.

When the bells of Saint Patrick's rang out across Manhattan, he was welcoming his bride — and I finally flew out of my cage.

——

"What happened?"

The corridor was chaos, footsteps scattering in every direction. I grabbed a servant whose face was pale with panic.

"It's Don—he's been hurt!" The servant clutched a medical kit, his voice trembling. "In the shootout just now—"

The moment I heard he was hurt, my mind went completely blank.

Without a second thought, I wrenched the heavy medical kit from the servant's hands and bolted toward the mansion's main study.

"Miss Valeria, you can't go in there—" the servant called after me, alarmed.

I didn't listen.

For three years, every time he bled, every time he was wounded, I was the one who cleaned and stitched him up with my own hands.

I was the only woman he ever allowed near him when he was at his weakest. Now that he was hurt, how could I not go to him?

Breathless, I reached the study door and was about to push it open when a soft, sweet voice drifted out from inside.

My hand froze mid-air.

I peered through the gap in the door.

Cassian Moretti—the man who controlled half the criminal underworld of New York—had just walked away from a bloody skirmish with a rival family.

At times like this, he would usually be leaning back on the sofa, eyes closed, waiting for me to wipe the blood from the back of his hand with a warm towel.

I would stitch his wounds closed.

For three years, I had been the most obedient canary kept in his penthouse—the only woman ever permitted this close to him in such moments.

But today, my feet stopped.

Through the gap in the door, I saw Cassian seated behind his desk—and Bianca Falcone, the fiancée he was set to marry next month in an arranged union, straddling his lap.

Bianca wore a couture silk gown, a pristine white handkerchief in her hand, dabbing playfully at the blood on the side of his face.

"Cassian, you really were careless today," Bianca cooed. "If you'd scarred that face, I'd be furious at the wedding next month."

Cassian didn't push her away.

The same man who would frown if I asked one extra question about his schedule now merely curled his lips into a cold half-smile, letting Bianca press her crimson lips against the cheek she'd just wiped clean.

His hand rested on her waist.

That hand—stained with blood, roughened with calluses—slid slowly beneath the sheer silk fabric, tracing the curve of her waist.

Bianca let out a soft, sweet gasp, melting further into his chest.

My hand trembled. The medical kit slipped from my grip and hit the floor.

The sounds inside the study cut off instantly.

Cassian lifted his head, his eyes cutting straight through me.

"What are you doing standing there?" His voice was ice.

"Get out, Valeria. Don't get in the way."

Bianca turned, a flicker of smug contempt in her eyes, though her tone stayed sickly sweet.

"Oh, it's Valeria. Cassian, don't be so harsh with her—she was just worried about you. But I'm here now, that's enough. Let her go rest."

"Did you hear her?" Cassian lit a cigar.

"Go back to your room. When Bianca's here, don't show your face on this floor."

I stood there, silently staring at this man—the one I had loved for three years, the one I had taken bullets for, the one I had spent countless sleepless nights fearing for.

Twenty to twenty-three—I had poured the brightest, most passionate three years of my life into him. I thought I could melt this iceberg. I thought, at the very least, I meant something to him.

But now I understood.

A canary was still just a canary.

In front of a real mafia heiress, I was nothing more than a plaything, ready to be discarded at will.

"Of course, Mr. Moretti." I heard my own voice come out unnervingly calm—no tremor, no accusation, not even a trace of anger.

I picked up the medical kit and turned to leave.

Back in my room, I looked at myself in the mirror. All I felt was an exhaustion so complete it seemed to drain every ounce of strength from my body—the kind that comes only after seeing everything with perfect clarity.

I pulled open the bottom drawer of my closet, where a plan to leave—drafted half a year ago, one I'd never had the heart to act on—still waited.

I looked out at New York's glittering, indifferent skyline and thought that three years of obsession now seemed almost laughable.

I picked up my phone and dialed a number hidden away in my contacts, one I'd never called before.

"It's me. Valeria. I need a new passport. Europe. As soon as possible."

I hung up and looked out again at the cold, glittering lights of New York. Three years of devotion, and it all felt like a joke now.

Cassian—if I'm such a nuisance to you, then I'll disappear from your sight.

For good.