Chapter 3 - The Bride Nobody ExpectedBy noon, half of Manhattan believed Lorenzo Moretti was engaged.
By one, Clara wanted to murder him.
She stood barefoot in the center of a Fifth Avenue dressing room while three stylists surrounded her with measuring tape.
Maya sat on a velvet sofa, eating strawberries and looking far too entertained.
“This is insane,” Clara said.
Maya grinned.
“You’re marrying a billionaire.”
“Temporarily.”
“A hot billionaire.”
“Maya.”
“A terrifying hot billionaire.”
“Maya.”
“Fine.”
Clara pointed toward the door.
“You are supposed to be traumatized.”
“I was until his security team moved us into an apartment with a refrigerator that makes sparkling water.”
Silas coughed to hide a laugh.
Clara glared at him.
The apartment burglary had changed the timetable.
Lorenzo wanted the marriage public immediately. According to him, becoming a Moretti would place Clara and Maya behind a wall most collectors would hesitate to cross.
Clara suspected it would also paint a larger target on them.
At two, Lorenzo entered.
The stylists went silent.
Clara wore a simple cream dress, nothing like the jeweled gowns hanging behind her.
Lorenzo looked at her.
And forgot to speak.
Only for a second.
Clara noticed.
“Problem?”
“No.”
“Good.”
His gaze remained on her.
Maya smiled into her strawberry.
Lorenzo finally addressed Silas.
“Car ready?”
“Yes.”
Clara frowned.
“Where are we going?”
“City Hall.”
“Today?”
“We have a marriage license appointment.”
“You arranged that without asking?”
“You agreed.”
“I agreed at four in the morning while someone was tearing apart my apartment.”
Lorenzo stepped closer.
“You can walk away.”
The room quieted.
Clara searched his face.
“Can I?”
“Yes.”
“And Sanz?”
“I’ll still keep Maya protected for forty-eight hours.”
It was more choice than she expected.
But not enough.
Clara looked at Maya.
Then back at Lorenzo.
“Let’s go.”
They married at 4:17 p.m.
No flowers.
No family.
No vows beyond the legally required words.
Silas witnessed.
Maya cried anyway.
When Lorenzo slipped a plain platinum band onto Clara’s finger, his hand was surprisingly careful.
“Clara Vance,” the clerk said, “do you take—”
“Keep Vance.”
The clerk blinked.
Lorenzo looked at her.
“My name stays.”
A pause.
Then he nodded.
“Clara Vance it is.”
Outside, cameras were waiting.
Dozens.
Clara stopped.
“You leaked this.”
“I announced it.”
“That is the same thing with better stationery.”
Reporters shouted.
“Lorenzo! Who is she?”
“Clara! How long have you been dating?”
“Is she pregnant?”
Clara nearly choked.
Lorenzo placed one hand lightly behind her back.
She stiffened.
He immediately removed it.
That tiny gesture mattered more than she wanted it to.
A reporter pushed forward.
“Mr. Moretti, is it true your wife was serving tables last night?”
Laughter rippled through several people.
Clara’s face warmed.
Lorenzo stopped.
Silas murmured, “Boss.”
Lorenzo turned toward the reporter.
“My wife worked for everything she has.”
The street quieted.
“If you believe honest work makes her less worthy of respect, the embarrassment belongs to you, not her.”
Clara stared at him.
He walked toward the SUV.
For the first time, she followed without being told.
That evening, she moved into Lorenzo’s penthouse.
Her bedroom was across the hall from his.
Maya received a room upstairs and immediately disappeared to video-call her friends.
Clara found Lorenzo in his study.
The black folder was open.
“You said my father stole something.”
Lorenzo leaned back.
“A ledger.”
“What kind?”
“My father kept records of payments, politicians, judges, businesses.”
“Crimes.”
“Yes.”
“Why would my father have it?”
“That’s what I’m trying to understand.”
Clara stepped closer.
“What was he to your family?”
Lorenzo hesitated.
“He was my father’s accountant.”
Clara stopped breathing.
“My father repaired elevators.”
“No.”
“He worked maintenance for twenty years.”
“That was his cover after he left us.”
She shook her head.
“You’re lying.”
Lorenzo opened a drawer and removed a photograph.
Two men stood outside a restaurant.
One was Lorenzo’s father, older and heavier.
The other was John Vance.
Clara recognized his crooked smile immediately.
The photograph slipped in her fingers.
“My father told me he hated organized crime.”
“Maybe he learned to.”
“When?”
“About eighteen years ago.”
That matched something Clara remembered.
Her father moving them abruptly from Queens to Brooklyn.
Changing phone numbers.
Never explaining why.
“Why steal the ledger?”
“I don’t know.”
“You always say that when you do know something.”
Lorenzo’s jaw tightened.
Before he could respond, the study door opened.
An elegant woman in her sixties entered without knocking.
Pearls.
Silver-blond hair.
An expression cold enough to lower the room temperature.
Lorenzo stood.
“Mother.”
Her eyes moved to Clara’s ring.
“So it’s true.”
Clara straightened.
Lorenzo said, “Clara, my mother, Alessandra Moretti.”
Alessandra ignored the introduction.
“Do you know what her father did?”
Clara looked at Lorenzo.
“Apparently everyone does except me.”
Alessandra approached.
“John Vance didn’t merely steal from this family.”
“Mother.”
“He betrayed us.”
“Enough.”
“He caused your father’s death.”
Silence struck the room.
Clara stared at Lorenzo.
His face confirmed something his mouth had not.
“You knew?”
Lorenzo said nothing.
“You knew when you brought me here?”
“Clara—”
“You married the daughter of the man you believe killed your father?”
Alessandra’s laugh was humorless.
“No, dear.”
She looked directly at Clara.
“My son married you because he believes your father hid the ledger with you.”
Clara turned toward Lorenzo.
He did not deny it.
May you like
And suddenly the ring on her finger felt less like protection.
It felt like evidence.
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