Chapter 4 - THE PRICE OF A MAFIA BRIDE
I returned to the Mercante mansion with the photograph hidden inside my coat.
Vincenzo was standing when I entered his study.
He should have been in bed.
His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the bandage beneath.
“You look terrible,” I said.
“So I've been told.”
He looked at my face.
“What happened?”
I placed the photograph on his desk.
His expression changed.
“Where did you get this?”
“An art gallery.”
He picked it up.
“That's my uncle.”
“I know.”
“Where was this taken?”
“I don't know. But my mother was with him.”
Vincenzo studied the picture.
Then he turned it over.
A date had been stamped on the back.
October 3, eighteen years ago.
He went still.
“What?” I asked.
“That was the day before the fire.”
The room seemed to shrink around us.
“Your uncle knew her?”
“Apparently.”
“Did you know?”
“No.”
“Do you believe me?”
Vincenzo looked up.
“Yes.”
It was such a simple answer.
I hadn't expected it.
He reached for his phone.
“Gio. Find out where Luca was on October third, eighteen years ago. Every record. Every witness.”
I watched him.
“You're willing to investigate your own uncle?”
“If he hurt your mother, he's going to answer for it.”
“And if your father was involved?”
Vincenzo didn't hesitate.
“Then the truth doesn't change because he's dead.”
For the first time, I wanted to believe him.
The next morning, the mansion was preparing for a party.
Florists carried white roses through the foyer.
Caterers wheeled silver carts toward the ballroom.
A woman with a clipboard argued about champagne.
I found Vincenzo at breakfast.
“What's happening?”
“My uncle's birthday dinner.”
I stared at him.
“You're hosting a party for the man we're investigating?”
“He expects me to.”
“That's a terrible reason.”
“It's also an opportunity.”
He pushed a cup of coffee toward me.
“Luca has spent twenty years pretending he's the loyal younger brother. Tonight I want to see how he reacts when he realizes you're here.”
I sat opposite him.
“And what am I supposed to be?”
His eyes held mine.
“My guest.”
“Not your bride?”
“Not unless you choose to be.”
I looked at the silver necklace around my neck.
My mother's warning rested against my skin.
“Your father's will. You still need to marry?”
“Yes.”
“What happens if you don't?”
“The controlling shares of Mercante Holdings pass to Luca.”
“And if he gets them?”
“He controls the legitimate businesses. The ports. The security contracts. The money that keeps hundreds of employees paid.”
“And the criminal side?”
Vincenzo's expression hardened.
“He'd try to take that too.”
I considered him.
“What if I agreed?”
He set down his coffee.
“Agreed to what?”
“To marry you.”
“Violet—”
“Not because Derek sold me. Not because you paid him. Because I want answers.”
He leaned back.
“You're proposing a deal.”
“Yes.”
“What are your terms?”
I took a breath.
“A real marriage certificate, but separate bedrooms. No physical expectations. I keep my own money. I can leave whenever I want.”
“Agreed.”
“You help me find my mother.”
“Agreed.”
“And if your family hurt her, you don't protect them.”
Vincenzo's gaze never left mine.
“Agreed.”
I hesitated.
“One more thing.”
“Name it.”
“I want every dollar you paid Derek returned to me.”
He almost smiled.
“That's reasonable.”
“No. It's symbolic.”
“Then consider it done.”
He extended his hand.
I looked at it.
Then shook it.
His palm was warm.
His grip gentle.
It felt nothing like a transaction.
That frightened me more than I wanted to admit.
That evening, I descended the grand staircase wearing a midnight-blue gown.
I had chosen it myself.
Not because Vincenzo wanted a beautiful woman on his arm.
Because I wanted to enter that ballroom as someone who belonged to herself.
Vincenzo waited at the bottom.
He looked at me for a long moment.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“That's not an answer.”
He smiled faintly.
“You look like someone who's about to start a war.”
“Maybe I am.”
He offered his arm.
I took it.
The ballroom fell silent when we entered.
Dozens of wealthy guests stared.
Some recognized Vincenzo immediately.
Others looked at me with open curiosity.
Then a woman in a red satin dress approached.
Tall.
Blond.
Perfectly polished.
She looked at Vincenzo as if she owned him.
“Darling,” she said.
He stiffened.
“Monica.”
Her gaze moved to me.
“And who is this?”
“Violet Anderson.”
Monica's smile sharpened.
“Your new charity project?”
I felt Vincenzo's arm tense.
But before he could speak, I smiled.
“No. His future wife.”
The champagne glass in Monica's hand tilted.
A few drops spilled onto the marble floor.
Across the ballroom, a silver-haired man turned.
Luca Mercante.
His gaze landed on my face.
And the color drained from his.
He crossed the room so quickly that several guests stepped aside.
“What's your name?” he demanded.
“Violet Anderson.”
His eyes moved to my necklace.
My mother's silver heart.
Luca stopped breathing.
Then he whispered something I almost didn't hear.
“Isabella?”
Vincenzo stepped between us.
“Uncle. Is there a problem?”
Luca stared at me.
His hands were shaking.
“No,” he said.
But his voice cracked.
“No problem at all.”
Then Monica looked at the pendant.
Her face went white.
And I realized two people in that ballroom knew exactly who my mother was.
Before I could speak, the lights went out.
May you like
A woman's scream tore through the darkness.
Then a gunshot shattered the ballroom.
