The Second Chance for A Mafia's Runaway Bride

The scent of jasmine hung heavy in the air as I paced the gardens of Elysian Manor, the gravel crunching beneath my heels. The summer night was warm, the kind that used to bring me comfort as a child. But tonight, the air felt suffocating, wrapping around me like a noose.

This place, my sanctuary, now felt foreign, almost hostile. The weight of the engagement ring on my finger was unbearable, its once-beautiful glint now a cruel reminder of what I thought I had.

My chest tightened as I replayed what happened, each memory cutting deeper than the last. Lorenzo’s voice, cold and sharp. Stefania’s smirk. The humiliation painted on every face in the ballroom as I was shocked seeing my half-sister being back after running away a year and a half ago.

I came to a stop near the grand oak tree at the heart of the garden, its ancient roots twisting through the soil like veins. My fingers brushed against the rough bark as I leaned against it, my knees threatening to buckle. This tree had been my confidant once, a silent witness to whispered secrets and childhood dreams.

Now, it bore witness to my heartbreak.

My hands trembled as I pulled my phone from my purse. The screen illuminated in the darkness. For a moment, I stared at it, my thumb hovering over Mama’s name. Calling her meant admitting the truth—not just to her, but to myself.

The first tear slipped down my cheek, warm against the cool night air. I swiped it away angrily, forcing my hand to steady. I couldn’t afford to be weak. Finally, I pressed the call button.

“Mama, I want to call off the wedding.” My voice trembled as the words left my lips, the weight of my decision pressing down on me.

My call to Mama reached her halfway across the world, where she was busy overseeing a shipment in Sicily. There was silence for a moment, a heavy pause that made my chest tighten. Then her voice came through, calm but with an undertone of something I couldn’t quite place. Acceptance? Or was it disappointment?

“Alright, Aletta…” she sighed. “You’re my only child, and this family—everything my father built for me—will be yours soon enough,” she stated next, like I was calling because I got broke and needed her to rescue me. “The sooner you return, the sooner you can learn to carry the mantle.”

“Mama…” My voice cracked as I tried to hold back the emotion threatening to spill over. A sob escaped before I could stop it. “I—”

“Disregard whatever the pain you felt for now,” she said in her steady tone. “I admit that I thought Lorenzo was different. But in the end, he’s walked the same path as so many others in this life. Power and temptation… such cruel mistresses, mia figlia.”

I couldn’t reply. My throat was tight. My heart is a twisted knot of pain. She is really my mother… I don’t need to say too much information, still she already knows the score.

And yeah, she was right. Because even me, I truly believed Lorenzo Corvino was different. We had grown up together, childhood sweethearts in the volatile world of mafia alliances. At eighteen, he had promised me a lifetime of loyalty and love—a promise I thought would be unshakable.

Lorenzo wasn’t like the others in our world. The Corvinos were at the pinnacle of power, controlling vast territories and commanding respect—and fear. Yet, Lorenzo stood apart. He was disciplined, courteous, and his integrity was rare in our circles.

In the eight years we had been together, Lorenzo had never been involved in a single scandal. He had never even raised his voice in anger. To outsiders, it was clear: Lorenzo’s quiet strength was matched only by his devotion to me. His every action spoke of a love so strong and deep that I had let myself believe in it completely.

And then tonight’s event happened.

At our engagement party, with everyone important in our world gathered under one roof, Lorenzo made a decision that shattered everything. He invited the one person I had spent my life avoiding—Stefania Volante.

The moment I saw Stefania enter the room, every buried memory came rushing back. The day her mother—my father’s mistress—forced their way into our lives, smirking as my mother cried helplessly in the sitting room. The years of humiliation, of Stefania’s calculated cruelty, stripping me of pride and joy piece by piece. And she was favored over and over by our father.

‘Even my last name is different from theirs. They are Volante and I seem like an illegitimate child for varying my mother’s last name—Vitale,’ I thought of. ‘Poor me, poor Aletta…’

My hand shook as I held my wine glass. The trembling of my hands betrayed the storm within me I tried to hide. When Stefania smirked at me from across the room, I couldn’t stand it. My grip faltered, and the glass shattered, red wine splattering onto the pristine marble floor. In my panic, I sought Lorenzo, my rock, my sanctuary. I moved toward him, desperate for his protection.

Instead, he shoved me aside. His voice, usually so gentle, turned cold and sharp. “Aletta, look at yourself! Apologize to Stefania. Now.”

His words were a slap, leaving me stunned and frozen. I followed his gaze and saw it—a faint stain of wine on Stefania’s designer heels. She looked up at me, her expression a perfect mix of triumph and mock pity.

“Lorenzo,” I whispered, “you can’t be serious.”

He glared at me, his anger palpable. “Apologize, Aletta. You’re drunk and out of control. If you can’t handle yourself, you’re not fit to be a Corvino.”

I couldn’t breathe. His words, his betrayal, played out in front of everyone: our families, our allies, our enemies. The humiliation burned hotter than any flame. Gathering what was left of my pride, I barked at security to escort Stefania out so she could change shoes. But Lorenzo stepped in her way, shielding her.

“This is your fault,” Lorenzo coldly said. “You’ve embarrassed yourself, me, and this entire family. Now you want to boss your sister to leave the party just like that?” He then turned and walked away, taking Stefania with him.

I stood there, rooted to the spot, the eyes of our guests searing into me. The whispers, the smirks, the looks of pity—I felt them all. The weight of their judgment crushed me until I couldn’t bear it any longer. I went out. Away from them.

Away from the cruel prejudices and there I called Antonella Vitale—my mother.

“Crying for someone as scumbag as Lorenzo, you must think twice. Is he worthy of your tears?” A man said that made me end the call I was having with my mother.

I turned to face him. I frowned. “Matteo Santoro,” I spat his name. “What are you doing here?”

“Following a damsel in distress, what else?”