Chapter 2
I check 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.
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't add 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.
"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, voice sharp 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?"