“You think I arranged that.”
It isn’t phrased as a question.
I lift my chin and knot my fingers into my napkin beneath the table.“You kidnapped me because you have a weird idea that we had something to do with the death of your father.Then my brother’s convoy crashes on the way to the cathedral.”I force each word past the anger simmering beneath my ribs.“His comms go dark.His security scatters across the city.”
Trying to hold on, I tighten my grip.“And somehow all of that happens just in time for you to walk down the aisle with me.”
Dante’s gaze doesn’t waver.
For a heartbeat I see something flash across his face—something darker than irritation—and then it disappears behind the same calm mask he’s worn since we sat down.
“You think I’m a fucking fool?”
The quiet fury threaded through the words is far more unsettling than if he’d raised his voice.
I hold his gaze anyway.
“Did you have something to do with it?”
He leans back in his chair, dragging one hand slowly across his jaw as though forcing himself to rein in whatever response might be threatening to break free.
“I got exactly what I wanted this morning.The only thing I wanted.”
His eyes rake deliberately down the length of me, lingering just long enough to send a flicker of unwanted heat through my chest before returning to my face.
“You.”
The single word lands with unnerving certainty.
“You standing at that altar.Saying I do.”
My stomach tightens.
“I had no reason to interfere with your brother’s travel plans.”
The statement is delivered so evenly that for a moment I don’t know whether to feel reassured or more suspicious than before.
“I wanted him to witness you belonging to me.”
More than anything, those are words I believe.“That’s convenient,” I mutter.
“Yes,” he agrees calmly.“It is.”
The breeze stirs the leaves overhead, dappling shifting patterns of light across the table between us.
For a few seconds neither of us speaks.
Then the question that’s been circling in my mind finally pushes its way free.
“If you didn’t arrange it,” I say slowly, “how do you know so much about what happened?”
Dante reaches for his glass of Syrah but doesn’t drink.Instead he turns the stem lightly between his fingers, watching the wine move inside the globe as though the answer requires careful consideration.
“One of my capos called.”
My brows draw together.
“Called you?”
