Chapter 6 - Mrs. DeLuca
The wedding took place eleven days later.
There were no flowers.
No cathedral.
No two-hundred-person guest list.
Just a judge, Margot, Marco, my parents, and enough security outside Boston City Hall to make strangers assume someone important had been indicted.
Rosalie wasn't invited.
Julian wasn't either.
I wore ivory.
Dominic wore black.
When the judge asked whether I entered the marriage voluntarily, Dominic looked at me instead of the judge.
I understood why.
He wanted the answer too.
“I do.”
His shoulders lowered almost imperceptibly.
Then it was his turn.
“I do.”
Two words.
Quiet.
Absolute.
Dominic slipped a plain platinum band onto my finger.
No giant diamond.
No theatrical display.
The simplicity moved me more than extravagance would have.
Margot cried anyway.
“I'm furious about how attractive this wedding is,” she whispered afterward.
I nearly laughed during the photographs.
Then we walked outside.
Reporters were waiting.
Someone had leaked it.
Questions exploded.
“Aurelia!”
“Mr. DeLuca!”
“Is this connected to Julian DeLuca's relationship with Rosalie Hawthorne?”
“Was this marriage arranged?”
“Is Hawthorne Maritime being acquired?”
Dominic's hand settled lightly against my lower back.
He didn't push me forward.
He waited.
My choice.
I stepped toward the microphones.
“My marriage isn't revenge.”
The crowd quieted.
“It also isn't an acquisition. Hawthorne Maritime remains independent, and my relationship with my husband is nobody's financial rescue plan.”
Husband.
Dominic's fingers shifted slightly against my back.
A reporter shouted, “Did you marry your former boyfriend's father to humiliate him?”
I looked straight into the cameras.
“No. I stopped making decisions based on whether Julian DeLuca would approve of them.”
Then we left.
The photograph was everywhere by lunch.
Me in ivory.
Dominic beside me.
Julian's father.
The story Boston wanted was scandal.
The truth was stranger.
Dominic gave me the entire second floor of his house.
He had moved nothing into my rooms except fresh flowers.
“Separate rooms,” he reminded me.
I looked around.
“You remembered.”
“I remember agreements.”
That night, I found him in the library.
Fire burned low.
He had removed his jacket and loosened his tie.
I stood in the doorway.
“Do mafia bosses ever sleep?”
“Retired fictional ones, frequently.”
I smiled.
“You hate the phrase.”
“I hate inaccurate job titles.”
I entered.
On the desk lay photographs.
Salvatore.
Rosalie.
A third man.
My father.
I stopped smiling.
“What is this?”
Dominic straightened.
“A photograph taken eighteen months ago.”
My father was entering a restaurant with Salvatore.
“He knew him?”
“Yes.”
My stomach turned.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I received this an hour ago.”
“Does my mother know?”
“I don't know.”
I grabbed my coat.
Dominic stood.
“Where are you going?”
“To ask him.”
“I'll drive.”
“No.”
“Aurelia—”
“You promised I wouldn't become something you controlled.”
His jaw tightened.
“I also promised to protect you.”
“Then learn how to do both.”
Silence.
Finally he picked up his keys.
“You drive.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“You drive. I accompany you.”
It was ridiculous.
And somehow exactly right.
My father opened the door twenty minutes later.
One look at the photograph and he sat down.
“Yes,” he said.
He had met Salvatore.
But not for the reason I expected.
Salvatore had approached him first.
“He told me Helena had been stealing from the company,” Dad said. “He offered proof.”
“And?”
“I didn't believe him.”
“Then why meet him?”
“Because he knew something else.”
My father looked toward Dominic.
“Something about Julian.”
Dominic's expression hardened.
“What?”
Charles opened a safe.
Inside was a flash drive.
He plugged it into his laptop.
An audio recording began.
Julian's voice.
I knew it instantly.
Then another man's.
Salvatore.
They were discussing Hawthorne Maritime.
My blood went cold.
Julian had known about the financial sabotage months before the ballroom.
Worse, he had apparently agreed not to expose it.
In exchange, Salvatore promised him control over a valuable shipping contract after Dominic retired.
Dominic listened without moving.
His own son's voice filled the room.
“I don't care what happens to Hawthorne,” Julian said on the recording. “Just keep Aurelia out of it.”
Salvatore laughed.
“Sentimental.”
“I'm serious.”
“And the sister?”
A pause.
“Rosalie is useful.”
I stared at the computer.
Useful.
Not loved.
Useful.
Dominic switched off the recording.
My father looked sick.
“I was trying to find enough evidence before telling you.”
“You all keep protecting me with lies.”
“I know.”
I turned toward Dominic.
His face was devastated.
Not visibly, perhaps, to anyone else.
But I knew his silences now.
This one was different.
It belonged to a father.
I touched his arm.
He looked down at my hand.
“You don't have to defend him,” I said.
“I wasn't going to.”
“What are you going to do?”
Dominic looked toward the dark window.
“Give him one opportunity to tell me the truth.”
Julian arrived an hour later.
He saw the flash drive.
Everything left his face.
Dominic asked only one question.
“Did you know?”
Julian swallowed.
“Yes.”
Dominic closed his eyes.
“Why?”
“I thought I could control Salvatore.”
“You betrayed Aurelia's family.”
“I was trying to protect her.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Apparently that's contagious.”
Julian looked at me.
“I loved you.”
“Then why Rosalie?”
His answer was almost inaudible.
“Because Salvatore threatened you.”
The room froze.
“He said if I didn't cooperate, he'd hurt you. Rosalie already worked for him. So I made him believe I'd chosen her.”
I stared at Julian.
“You publicly destroyed me to protect me?”
“I needed Salvatore to believe you meant nothing.”
Dominic's voice cut through the room.
“You could have come to me.”
Julian looked at his father.
“I was afraid you'd kill him.”
Dominic went silent.
And that silence answered more than words could.
Then my phone rang.
Rosalie.
I answered.
She was sobbing.
“Aurelia.”
“Where are you?”
“I found what Salvatore is planning.”
“Tell me.”
“He isn't trying to take Dominic's company anymore.”
A crash sounded behind her.
Rosalie gasped.
Then whispered four words.
May you like
“He's going to kill him.”
The call went dead.
