Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Eleonora
For half a second I think I imagined the gunshot. Then another one follows. Soon gunfire erupts around us in staccato pops. My ears ring instantly, the sound punching through the tinted glass like someone fired inside my skull.
The driver swears under his breath. Tires screech. The car jerks sideways so hard my shoulder slams into the door.
“Daddy dearest has finally decided to show. Took him long enough.”
Nico wipes the gun free from his jacket, already checking the chamber as he leans forward, the window slides down just enough for him to angle the weapon out, firing back.
“Stay down!” He barks at me.
I twist to look before I can stop myself, behind us, maybe three blocks back, two black SUVs barrel forward. Papa’s men. They’ve figured out the bride is missing.
More shots crackle, closer this time. Bullets ping off the armored side panels with dull thuds. The smell of burnt gunpowder seeps in through the vents, acrid and hot, mixing with the leather of the seats.
More shots crack. Glass spiders but doesn’t shatter. Nico fires once more, then pulls the gun back inside, already reloading with practiced ease.
“Clear right,” he says calmly to the driver.
“Down. Now!”
Before I can react, Nico’s arm hooks around my shoulders and yanks me low. His body covers mine like a shield, one forearm braced across my back, the other firing shots. His weight pins me, even as the car jerks and weaves.
He angles himself deliberately between me and the window line. A strange, disorienting thought flickers through my head. Didn’t he just threaten to kill me?
The car lurches right. Horns blare outside.
The driver yells in Italian from the front seat.
More shots. A distant crash, metal on metal, then the wet crunch of impact.
One of the pursuing SUVs spins out; I catch a glimpse through the narrow gap Nico’s arm allows: black smoke curling from a tire, the vehicle fishtailing into a guardrail.
The air inside the SUV feels thinner. My heart pounds so hard I can taste copper at the back of my tongue. Sweat prickles along my spine beneath layers of silk and lace.
Gradually, the gunfire grows distant. Only then does he ease up, sitting back slowly, checking the rear again. The pursuing vehicles are gone.
“We lost them,” the driver says.
“Yeah,” Nico responds, almost bored.
He surprises me again by helping me back into the seat. “Are you okay?” he asks.
I don’t bother responding, I scoot far from him as much as the car allows. We drive for what feels like forever but is probably an hour. And then the car slows. Gates open with a low hydraulic whine. Gravel crunches as we roll up a long, winding drive.
Trees close in overhead, blocking the sky. Iron fences topped with razor wire flash past. Guards, black-clad, rifles slung, nod from posts as we pass. The estate looms ahead, stone walls, tall windows with manicured lawns.
The car stops in a circular drive. I’m shaking, fine tremors in my hands, my knees, but I lock my jaw and force my spine straight. He doesn’t get to see me break.
Nico steps out first, then reaches back for me. His fingers close around my elbow.
“Out.”
I swing my legs through the door, heels sinking slightly into the gravel. The wedding dress drags behind me like a ghost. My veil is crooked now, half-torn from the chaos, lace fluttering in the breeze, but it still hides my face.
Nico
I watch her step out of the SUV, heels sinking into the gravel like she’s trying to root herself to the ground. The wedding dress is a mess now, train torn at the hem, chiffon wrinkled and streaked with dust.
Her shoulders are squared, chin up, but I see the fine tremor in her fingers, the way her bound wrists flex against the zip ties every few seconds. She’s terrified. But she’s refusing to let it show on her face.
I’m… impressed. Weirdly. I don’t know what I expected when I grabbed the Caruso girl, maybe some fragile, weeping thing who’d crumble the second the gunfire started. Not this.
Not the woman who bit at my hand, who kept running her mouth even when I threatened to tape it shut, who looked me dead in the eye after a moving shootout like she was daring me to do worse.
The attack is almost insulting. Laughable. If that’s the speed at which Massimo Caruso protects his daughters, I almost feel embarrassed for him.
It takes him that long to realize she’s gone. Security at every entrance. And he still doesn’t notice the bride has vanished until we’re halfway across the city.
Pathetic.
We cross the courtyard in silence. My men nod as we pass. Her heels click unevenly on the stone path, defiant little sounds that echo too loud in my head.
Inside the foyer, marble floors gleam under low lights. I stop at the side table, grab a crystal glass, fill it from the pitcher of water that’s always there. I hold it out to her.
“Drink.”
She stares at the glass like it’s poisoned. “I don’t want anything from you.”
The sass is back, now edged with exhaustion and the adrenaline crash. Her voice cracks just the tiniest bit on the last word.
I shrug. “Suit yourself.”
I set the glass down harder than necessary. Then I close my fingers around her upper arm again and start walking her toward the east wing corridor. The moment I’m close enough, her scent hits me full force again. Jasmine, something warmer underneath, maybe vanilla, soft, feminine.
It’s been assaulting my senses since the garden, in the car when I pinned her down, when I leaned in to threaten her, every time she shifted against me in the back seat. Sweet. Maddening. Completely at odds with the chaos I just dragged her through.
I hate that I notice it. Hate more that it’s lodged somewhere under my skin, making my pulse kick in a way it has no business doing.
I yank her forward, more force than needed, more than I meant to use. She stumbles once, catches herself.
We reach the private suite at the end of the hall. I punch the code into the keypad. The lock beeps green. Door swings open. I push her inside first, then follow, letting the heavy wood click shut behind us.
We stand staring at each other for a moment. I can’t see her face, the veil still covering it. It must have been pinned down tight to survive the chaos we just went through.
I reach for the veil. She moves a small step back the second my hand lifts. I follow just as easily, and my fingers catch the lace at her temples before she can retreat again, and I lift it slowly, carefully, folding the tulle back over her head until her face is bare.
Dark eyes meet mine. Full lips pressed tight. Hair slightly mussed from the ride, a few strands clinging to her neck where sweat has dried.
I study her for one long beat. This isn’t Sienna Caruso.
The third daughter is softer, rounder cheeks, lighter eyes, the kind of face that looks perpetually surprised. This woman is fiercer.
“What the fuck,” I mutter, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “You are not Sienna.”