Chapter 7 - A Wedding Dress Made for a Funeral
For three days, I refused to speak to my mother.
I hated myself for it.
She had survived years of captivity.
She had lost her family.
She had spent eighteen years believing her daughter was dead.
And I couldn't even sit beside her without hearing that name.
Salvatore DeLuca.
The man who had smiled at me across Victor's dining table.
The man who had asked whether children inherited their parents' sins.
The man who had watched me as though I were an object he had misplaced.
My father.
I felt sick.
Victor found me in the tailoring studio on the third evening.
I was sitting on the floor surrounded by fabric.
He didn't ask why.
He simply sat beside me.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
Then I said, “I think there's something wrong with me.”
He turned.
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to find my family.”
My voice shook.
“And now that I have, I wish I hadn't.”
Victor looked at me.
“There's nothing wrong with wanting answers.”
“What if the answers make everything worse?”
He was quiet.
Then he said, “They usually do.”
I laughed weakly.
He reached for my hand.
I let him.
“Your father's choices aren't yours,” he said.
I looked at him.
“Neither are yours.”
The words surprised us both.
Victor's expression changed.
Then he nodded.
“No,” he whispered. “They aren't.”
The next morning, Victor announced that he was holding a charity gala.
I thought he'd lost his mind.
“People are trying to kill us,” I said.
He stood in front of the mirror while I adjusted a shirt collar.
“Exactly.”
“That doesn't explain anything.”
“Salvatore wants the ledger. My father wants you. Both believe they can control me through you.”
“And?”
“We give them a reason to come into the open.”
I stepped back.
“That's a terrible plan.”
“It's the only one that puts them somewhere we can observe them.”
I folded my arms.
“Then why call it a charity gala?”
“Because we're announcing the conversion of my father's charitable foundation into an independently audited victim restitution fund.”
I stared at him.
He continued.
“We'll publish the first records we can verify. Transfer assets. Bring in outside counsel.”
“You're serious?”
“Yes.”
I studied him.
For the first time, I saw something different.
Not a man protecting his empire.
A man preparing to dismantle parts of it.
“Victor.”
He looked at me.
“That's going to make you enemies.”
His mouth curved bitterly.
“I already have plenty.”
Two days before the gala, I found a dress in the studio.
Ivory silk.
Long sleeves.
A fitted waist.
A skirt that moved like water.
Beside it was a note.
For the woman who taught me that broken things can become beautiful again.
I stared at the dress.
Then at the handwriting.
Victor.
I found him in the library.
He looked up from a stack of legal documents.
“Something wrong?”
I held up the note.
“What is this?”
His expression softened.
“A dress.”
“I know what it is.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“Victor.”
He stood.
Crossed the room.
Stopped in front of me.
“I wanted you to have something beautiful.”
My throat tightened.
“You don't have to buy me things.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
He looked at me.
“Because I wanted to.”
For a long moment, neither of us moved.
Then he said, “You don't have to wear it.”
I swallowed.
“What if I want to?”
His expression changed.
“Then I'd be honored.”
The gala began at seven.
The mansion glowed beneath chandeliers.
Guests arrived in black cars.
Politicians.
Business executives.
Attorneys.
Journalists.
People who had spent years pretending not to know where Victor Sabatini's money came from.
I stood at the top of the staircase wearing the ivory dress.
Victor waited below.
When he looked up, he stopped breathing.
Actually stopped.
I almost laughed.
“Something wrong?” I asked as I descended.
He shook his head.
“No.”
“Then why are you staring?”
He offered his hand.
“Because I think I just forgot every word I've ever known.”
I smiled.
“That's a first.”
He laughed softly.
Then took my hand.
And for one beautiful moment, I forgot the danger.
The moment ended when Salvatore DeLuca walked through the doors.
He wore a charcoal suit.
A silver tie.
And the same cold smile.
Victor's hand tightened around mine.
“Stay close.”
Salvatore approached.
“My boy.”
Victor didn't move.
“Salvatore.”
The older man looked at me.
His expression softened in a way that made my skin crawl.
“Tessa.”
I held his gaze.
“Mr. DeLuca.”
He smiled.
“So formal.”
“You haven't earned anything else.”
His smile faded.
Victor stepped slightly in front of me.
Salvatore chuckled.
“Protective, aren't we?”
Victor's voice was quiet.
“You're not welcome here.”
“Then why invite me?”
“Because I wanted you to hear the announcement.”
Salvatore looked interested.
“What announcement?”
Victor turned toward the ballroom.
The orchestra stopped.
Guests fell silent.
Victor stepped onto the raised platform.
He took the microphone.
“Thank you all for coming.”
I watched him.
His voice was steady.
“For years, the Sabatini name has been associated with power. Wealth. Influence.”
He paused.
“Tonight, I intend to tell you what some of that power cost.”
The room changed.
People exchanged glances.
Salvatore's smile disappeared.
Victor continued.
“My father built an organization on lies. Some of those lies destroyed innocent families.”
A murmur spread.
“I can no longer defend that legacy.”
Salvatore stepped forward.
“Victor.”
Victor ignored him.
“Effective immediately, I'm placing the foundation under independent control and turning over evidence of financial crimes to federal authorities.”
The room erupted.
Phones appeared.
People whispered.
Cameras flashed.
Then Victor looked directly at Salvatore.
“And one of the men responsible is standing in this room.”
Salvatore's face hardened.
He reached inside his jacket.
I screamed.
Victor turned.
A gunshot cracked.
The chandelier above us exploded.
Glass rained down.
Guests scattered.
Victor grabbed me.
But before we could move, a second gunshot sounded.
Salvatore staggered.
Blood spread across his shirt.
He looked down.
Then collapsed.
I stared.
My father.
Shot.
Dying.
Victor turned toward the balcony.
A figure stood behind the railing.
Holding a pistol.
Then the figure stepped into the light.
An elderly man.
Gray hair.
Cold eyes.
Antonio Sabatini.
Victor's father.
Alive.
May you like
And smiling.
“Hello, son.”
