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The wedding planner returns with two assistants who help me into the wedding dress. The silk feels cold against my skin as they slide it up my body, carefully avoiding my hair and makeup. I stand perfectly still as they fasten dozens of tiny pearl buttons up my spine.
"Deep breath in," one assistant says, pulling the fabric tighter.
I comply, feeling the dress constrict around my ribs. Another symbol of what my life will become—beautiful but suffocating.
"Perfect," the wedding planner declares, stepping back to assess me. "Absolutely stunning."
I stare at my reflection. The dress is truly beautiful—a masterpiece of design and craftsmanship. The bodice hugs my curves before flaring into a dramatic skirt. Delicate lace sleeves cover my shoulders and arms, giving the illusion of modesty while the deep V neckline suggests otherwise.
"The shoes now," the planner instructs.
I sit carefully on a velvet chair as an assistant slides the custom heels onto my feet—four-inch crystal-encrusted stilettos that cost more than most people's monthly rent. I twist my mother's ring as they secure the narrow straps around my ankles.
"Ready?" the planner asks, checking her watch.
I nod, standing slowly. The weight of the dress is substantial, but I've been trained my entire life to carry a burden with grace.
"The car is waiting," she says, holding the door open.
I follow her down the corridor, the dress rustling behind me. Each step brings me closer to freedom—or disaster. My heart pounds against the structured bodice, but my face remains serene.
Outside, the sleek black Mercedes waits at the bottom of the steps. The wedding planner walks ahead to the lead car where the photographer and her assistants are already waiting.
"I'll see you at the cathedral," she calls over her shoulder. "Remember, chin up, shoulders back."
I approach the Mercedes, noting with relief that the driver is a complete stranger—not my father's man. He wears the standard uniform—black suit, cap pulled low—his face obscured in shadow. Perfect.
He opens the rear door with a white-gloved hand. "Signorina Lombardi." he says, voice low and unfamiliar. Our eyes meet for a second.
I slip into the backseat, careful to gather in the voluminous skirt.
The door closes with a soft thud, sealing me in the quiet luxury of the car's interior.
CHAPTER 2
Icheck my watch again. Five minutes until the Lombardi princess is supposed to appear. Now I wait beside a sleek black Mercedes with darkened windows. Perfect for what comes next.
Damiano's orders from two days ago still ring in my ears. "The Lombardis have betrayed us, Alessio. We have proof. And this wedding—this fucking alliance with the Fortins—will destroy everything my father built."
I'd seen the evidence myself. Bank statements. Recorded conversations. Photos of Antonio Lombardi meeting with our enemies. The Lombardis weren't just making a political marriage—they were forming a coalition so as to wipe the Ferettis off the map.
"Take the daughter," Damiano had said, his voice deadly calm in that way that always means trouble. "Before the ceremony. No blood, no mess. Just make her disappear."
A hostage. A bargaining chip. Maybe more, depending on what she knows about her father's business.
The massive doors of the Lombardi estate open, and there she is. Melania Lombardi, draped in white silk and lace. I've seen photos but they didn't capture the reality of her. The curves barely contained by the tight bodice. The way she moves—careful but not timid. Something in her eyes I didn't expect: calculation.
This isn't some weeping bride overwhelmed by her big day. This woman is thinking. Planning. Interesting.
She descends the steps alone.
Some nervous woman with a clipboard and an earpiece climbs into the front car, muttering about schedules and timing. She doesn't even glance at me. I'm just another security goon to her, another black suit blending into the background.
Little does she know.
I step forward, opening the car door with a slight bow. "Signorina Lombardi."
Her eyes meet mine and I briefly see something flash across her face. Not recognition—we've never met. Something else. Relief? That can't be right.