Ruined By Capture (Feretti Syndicate #4)

Chapter 1

I stare at the wedding dress hanging on the gilt stand across the room. It's a Vera Wang original—custom-made, with hand-sewn crystals that catch the light as they cascade across yards of Italian silk. A dress fit for a princess. Or in my case, a sacrificial lamb.

The hairdresser tugs at another section of my hair, pinning it into an elaborate updo that will perfectly showcase the diamond tiara my father insisted on. I barely feel the pulls anymore. My scalp should be tender, but I'm numb to everything except the ticking clock.

"You have such beautiful hair, Miss Lombardi," the stylist murmurs, sliding in another pearl-tipped pin. "So thick and glossy."

I make a noncommittal sound. What does it matter how my hair looks? The only people who will see it are in this room.

The makeup artist hovers nearby, her kit open and waiting. I recognize the products—all luxury brands, specially selected to withstand tears of joy, professional photography, and hours of celebration.

"We'll start on your face in about ten minutes," she says, arranging her brushes. "We want to make sure your hair is completely secure first."

I nod, my eyes drifting to the window. The cathedral is only fifteen minutes away.

The floral arrangements alone cost over a hundred thousand dollars—white roses and orchids flown in from three different countries.

The reception hall has been transformed with crystal chandeliers and ice sculptures.

Five hundred guests are receiving their programs from white-gloved attendants.

All this extravagance for a union that will cement two families together. All this beauty to mask the ugliness beneath.

I look at my reflection in the mirror as the hairdresser adjusts my veil. I look like a stranger—a beautiful, empty-eyed doll dressed for display. By the time they finish with me I'll be picture-perfect, ready to walk down the aisle to a man who sees me as nothing but a business acquisition.

But the bride will never arrive at the church.

By the time they realize I'm gone, I'll be far, far away.

The hairdresser steps back to admire her work. "Perfect," she declares. "Absolutely perfect."

I smile politely. Yes, everything is perfect.

The veil is taken away as the makeup artist approaches with her arsenal of brushes and glitzy products. I close my eyes as she begins applying iridescent primer to my face, her touch light and impersonal.

"We're going for timeless elegance," she explains, though I never asked. "A soft contour to enhance your bone structure, nothing too trendy that will look dated in photos a couple of years from now."

I twist my mother's ring around my finger as she works. Would my mother have approved of this marriage? Or would she have seen through the facade like I do?

"Your father will be waiting for you at the cathedral steps when you arrive," the wedding planner announces, checking something off her clipboard. "He wanted to greet the guests personally before escorting you inside."

Of course he did. Antonio Lombardi, ever the gracious host, making sure every crime boss and corrupt politician feels welcomed before he sells his daughter to the highest bidder.

I imagine him now, shaking hands with men whose fingernails are permanently stained with other people's blood, kissing the cheeks of wives dripping in diamonds bought with drug money.

"How lovely," I say, voice carefully neutral.

The makeup artist tilts my chin up to apply foundation. "Such perfect dewy skin. You must be so excited."

I force my lips into what I hope resembles a smile. "It's quite overwhelming."

What's overwhelming is knowing exactly how this charade will play out.

I've watched this performance play over my entire life.

At every wedding, the same actors play their parts—smiling, toasting, dancing—all while deals are made in quiet corners and alliances shift like sand.

They'll congratulate my father on securing such a powerful connection.

They'll tell Raymond he's a lucky man. They'll tell me I look beautiful, as if that's all that matters.

Not one person will ask if this is what I want.

In our world marriage isn't about love—it's about mergers and acquisitions, with women as the currency of exchange. My father didn't raise a daughter; he cultivated an asset that has finally matured enough to be traded.

The wedding planner's phone rings and she steps away to answer it. I open my eyes briefly, catching my reflection. Half-finished, I already look like every other mafia bride I've ever seen—beautiful, vacant, resigned.

The makeup artist tilts my face toward the light, dabbing concealer under my eyes. "You look tired, Miss Lombardi. Pre-wedding jitters?"

I smile faintly. "Something like that."

What she doesn't know is that I haven't slept at all. My mind keeps replaying last night's dinner at Raymond's estate—the final ‘intimate gathering’ before our wedding. Raymond insisted on showing me his study after everyone left.

"You should know what you're marrying into," he said, voice dripping with self-importance. "Not many women are fortunate enough to have a husband with such... resources."

Raymond unlocked his desk drawer and pulled out a small black device.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked, holding up the USB device like it was the crown jewels.

"A flash drive?" I said, feigning ignorance.

He laughed, that condescending chuckle that makes my skin crawl. "This little device holds more money than your father will make in his lifetime. Thirty-five million in cryptocurrency. Untraceable. Untaxable."

I widened my eyes in practiced awe while my mind raced. Three years studying cybersecurity in London. Top of my class. My professor said I had a natural talent for breaking security protocols.

"How does it work?" I asked, touching his arm in fake fascination.

The makeup artist busts into my daydream/nightmare as she applies highlighter to my cheekbones. "Your skin is glowing. Are you using a new serum?"

"Just getting plenty of rest," I lie.

Rest. As if I could rest after what I found last night. As Raymond tucked his precious mechanical wallet back into his desk drawer, I deliberately slipped my mother's ring off my finger and gasped.

"My ring! I've lost my mother's ring!"

The panic in my voice wasn't entirely fake. That ring is the only thing I have left of her.

"It must have fallen off somewhere," I said, already searching around the floor. "Please, Raymond, I can't lose it."

He sighed, annoyed at the interruption of his wealth display. "I'll check the dining room. You keep looking in here."

The moment he left I went straight to his desk. The drawer wasn't even locked—such arrogance. Men like Raymond never expect women to understand their toys, let alone steal them. I slid the small device into my pocket.

Back home in my room I accessed the drive using the admin tools I'd developed during my final year.

What I found made my blood freeze. Not just cryptocurrency transactions, but records too.

Photographs. Ledgers. Names and dates of girls who'd disappeared.

Organ harvesting operations. My father's signature next to Raymond's on documents authorizing ‘shipments’.

The makeup artist applies a rose-colored lipstick to my mouth, again jolting me into the now. "Almost done. You'll be the most beautiful bride."

I force another smile, feeling the weight of the knowledge that the USB is hidden in my bag in the car. Not just my ticket to freedom but evidence that could bring down Raymond Stone, respected politician and secret monster. And my father along with him.

I glance at my phone again, confirming that the message went through to my father's account.

Technology has always been my ally—the one thing the men in my family never bothered to understand.

They're still using the same passwords they created years ago, thinking their secrets are safe behind digital walls I learned to scale when I was sixteen.

"Miss Lombardi, we need to get you into your dress now," the wedding planner says, checking her watch.

The text to the driver looked exactly like something my father would write—curt, demanding, brooking no argument. Change of schedule. Pick up my daughter at 2 p.m. instead of 1 p.m..

No one questions Antonio Lombardi, especially not his employees.

If the driver somehow ignores the message or double-checks with someone else, I'll need a backup plan.

"I need a moment alone," I say, standing up. "Just five minutes to collect myself."

The wedding planner looks concerned. "We're on a tight schedule?—"

"Five minutes," I repeat, my voice firmer.

She relents, ushering the stylists out. The moment the door closes I grab my phone and open the encrypted messaging app I installed last night.

The profile is blank—no name, no photo, just a number.

The kind of service that exists in the shadows, where money can buy anything from fake passports to getaway drivers.

I delete the conversation and set the phone aside. I won't need it anymore. Raymond hasn't discovered the USB is missing yet—I'm certain of that. If he had there would be armed men breaking down this door, not makeup artists cooing over the perfect shade of blush.

I look at the wedding dress again, all that white silk and lace meant to symbolize purity. There's nothing pure about this arrangement. Nothing innocent about the money that paid for these crystals and pearls.

What would these people say if they knew their beloved Senator Raymond Stone trades in human lives? That my father helps him transport ‘merchandise’ across state lines? That the charitable foundation Stone chairs is a front for organ harvesting?

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.