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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 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 structured 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.
I step forward, opening the car door with a slight bow. "Signorina Lombardi."
Her eyes meet mine and for a second, I see something flash across her face. Not recognition—we've never met. Something else. Relief? That can't be right.
"You're not the usual driver," she says, her voice steady.
I smile, the practiced smile that reveals nothing. "Change of plans, signorina. Your father insisted on additional security today."
She hesitates, clutching a portfolio tight against her side. My instincts sharpen. Whatever's in there matters to her.
"After you," I gesture to the open door, keeping my voice respectful but firm.
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.