Page 5

"I didn't hire you to ask questions," she says coolly. Her voice is cultured, precise—the voice of someone used to being obeyed. Not rude, but firm. A boundary being set.
She thinks she hired me? Interesting. Very fucking interesting.
"Of course," I reply smoothly. "My apologies."
She returns to changing, sliding the gown down her body with practiced movements. I force my eyes back to the road, my mind racing to the only possibility: Melania Lombardi arranged her own escape and by crazy coincidence ended up with me as her driver. Too bad for her.
I glance at her again in the mirror. She's stepping into a simple black dress now, movements agile despite the confined space. The wedding gown lies discarded on the floor like shed skin.
She's transformed herself from fairy-tale bride to sleek professional in under two minutes. The black dress hugs her curves but looks business cocktail. Her hair comes down next, pins removed one by one until chestnut waves fall around her shoulders.
Smart girl. Harder to spot a woman in black than a fucking wedding dress.
Ten minutes into the drive she leans forward, that perfect posture suddenly alert. "You missed the turn," she says, voicesharp with irritation. "The train station was back there. Left at the junction."
I don't respond, just press harder on the accelerator. The Mercedes responds instantly, surging forward.
"Did you hear me?" Her voice rises slightly. "I said you missed the turn. I'm sure I was clear when I hired you—I need to get to the train station."
I meet her eyes in the mirror, letting my mask slip just enough. Let her see what she's dealing with. "You didn't hire me, princess."
The car accelerates more as we hit the open highway. Her face pales as understanding dawns.
"What are you talking about?" Her voice wavers for the first time. "Stop the car immediately."
I shake my head once, never taking my eyes off the road. "That's not happening."
"What is this?" Her voice has gone cold, that aristocratic control sliding back into place despite the fear I see building in her eyes.
I glance at her in the mirror one more time, allowing myself a small, humorless smile. "This, Melania, is what we call a kidnapping."
The blood drains from her face. "WHAT?"
Her expression transforms instantly, fury replacing shock. Her eyes turn molten gold as she lunges forward, fingers curled like she's ready to claw my eyes out through the rearview mirror.
"You son of a bitch!" she snarls, all aristocratic polish gone. "Who sent you? Raymond? My father?"
I keep one eye on her and one on the road. She's a wildcat in the backseat now, looking for any weakness, any opening. Smart money says she's searching for the door locks, calculating if she could survive jumping from a moving vehicle.
"Sit back," I order, my voice dropping to that quiet place that makes my enemies shit themselves. "Now."
She doesn't listen. Of course she fucking doesn't.
I hit the button that raises the bulletproof partition between us. The thick glass slides up smoothly, sealing her in the back compartment. Her fist connects with it once, twice, before she realizes it's useless. I watch her mouth form curses I can no longer hear.
With the soundproofing in place, I pull my phone out and dial Damiano. He answers on the first ring.
"It's done," I say, eyes flicking to the rearview where Melania is now systematically testing every door and window. "I have her."
"Any problems?" Damiano asks.
"Interesting situation," I reply, my thumb running along my bottom lip as I consider how to explain. "She was already running."
"What?"
"Seems she was fleeing her wedding. Changed out of her dress in the backseat. Thought I was her getaway driver."
A pause, then Damiano's low chuckle. "Fucking hell. The Lombardi princess was planning to leave Stone at the altar?"