Page 4

She takes a deep breath and slides into the backseat.
I close the door behind her and walk around to the driver's side.
Time to make a bride disappear.
I slide behind the wheel and catch her reflection in the rearview mirror. She doesn't look at me—just stares out the window as I pull away from the estate. No tears. No trembling hands.
This isn't right.
A woman moments from her wedding should be radiating something—joy, nerves, even dread. But Melania Lombardi sits like a statue, her face a perfect mask. Only her fingers betray her, twisting a thin band on her right hand—not her engagement ring, something else.
I study her in quick glances. The dress is a work of art. But she wears it more like armor than a dream come true. Her hair is pinned in an elaborate style that frames her face perfectly—heart-shaped, with full lips pressed into a thin line. Her skin is flawless, makeup applied with expert precision. She looks like a porcelain doll.
Except for her eyes. Her amber-hazel eyes are sharp, scheming, constantly moving as she tracks our route.
I catch her gaze in the mirror and for a brief moment our eyes lock.
She breaks the contact first, looking back out the window. Her fingers twist that ring faster now, a nervous tell that contradicts her composed face.
I miss the turn that would take us to the church, watching for her reaction in the rearview mirror. Nothing. Not even a flicker of surprise crosses her face. She just keeps staring out the window, delicate fingers still working the ring around and around.
Something's off. A bride who doesn't notice when her driver misses the turn to her own wedding? Who doesn't ask questions about a change in drivers?
She shifts in her seat, the massive dress rustling like Christmas wrapping. Then I see her hands disappear beneath the passenger seat in front of her.
My body tenses, hand moving instantly to the gun holstered under my jacket. If this is some kind of trap…
But she pulls out a small duffel bag. Not a weapon. My fingers remain on the pistol grip anyway as I divide my attention between her and the road.
The sound of fabric shifting draws my eyes back to the mirror. What I see makes my breath catch. Melania Lombardi is contorting her body into an uncomfortable position, both arms ratcheted behind her. I grip the gun again in case… then the front of the bodice gapes and …
Cazzo. What the fuck is happening?
She’s unbuttoning the back of her wedding dress, the boned bodice falling away revealing the creamy skin of her chest, the lace edge of what looks like a strapless bra. I force my eyes back to the road, then can't help but be drawn to look again.
She catches me watching in the mirror, her eyes flashing.
"Keep your eyes on the road," she says, her voice surprisingly steady. "I need to take this dress off."
I grip the steering wheel tighter, as I process what's happening. This woman is running away from her own wedding. But she hasn't asked who I am, hasn't questioned why I'm driving her instead of the regular chauffeur, hasn't even noticed we're heading in the completely wrong direction and not headed to the cathedral.
Either she's the most oblivious bride in history, or...
She knows exactly what she's doing.
Is this a setup? Some kind of test set by the Lombardis? Or is she really fleeing her wedding day?
The rustle of fabric fills the car as she continues undressing. I force my attention to the road, taking a sharp left that puts us firmly en route to the first stop in the plan.
Still no reaction from her.
What the actual fuck is going on?
I take a deep breath, focusing on the narrow road ahead while keeping her in my peripheral vision. The situation doesn'tadd up. She's running from her own wedding, but I'm supposed to be kidnapping her. Someone's plan is about to get fucked up, and I know it's not mine.
"So," I say, keeping my voice casual, "running away from your own wedding?"
She pauses, her dress half-off, and meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. Something flashes across her face—surprise, then suspicion, then a carefully constructed neutrality.