Moretti.
For a moment, I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting off the terrible wave of disappointment.
For a moment, just a moment, I had hoped—prayed—I was going to be saved from my horrible fate.
Bravely I meet his eyes.
The careful order that usually surrounds him has been disturbed.
His tie is slightly askew, the knot loosened just enough to suggest it was straightened quickly rather than adjusted with his usual deliberate precision.One dark lock of hair has slipped across his forehead, and my attention lingers there before sliding downward.
To his hands.
His knuckles are bloodied, not dripping, but dramatic and unmistakable.The dark red has begun to dry along the sharp ridges of bone, smeared across skin that looks like it collided with something—or someone—far less fragile.
The sight lands in my chest with a strange, quiet certainty.
So that’s what delayed the ceremony.
I don’t have to ask what kind of man stands in front of me.
I already know.
He was the Moretti enforcer—the man sent when a message needed to be delivered in bone instead of words, when diplomacy has failed and someone needs to remind the world exactly how power works.
And recently he’s been elevated to underboss, a far more dangerous position.
Which means he’s no longer simply the weapon.
He’s the man deciding when the weapon needs to be used.
His gaze sweeps over me slowly, taking in every detail with the kind of quiet thoroughness that makes it impossible to pretend he’s missed anything.
My bare feet on the polished floor.
The way I’ve gathered my dress in both hands so I can run.
The bouquet splattered on the floor, flowers lying against stone like some sort of pale sacrifice.
His mouth curves slightly.
“Were you expecting someone else, princess?”
The question lands softly in the room, almost conversational, but there’s something in his tone that makes my pulse jump.
Heat creeps up my neck as I become painfully aware of how I must look—caught somewhere between bride and fugitive.
“I…” My voice falters, and I clear my throat to try again.“What happened?”
Then I shake my head.He’s not going to answer that question.Moretti will never explain himself to me.
Instead of answering, he walks into the room and closes the door behind him.
Every movement is unhurried, controlled, each step carrying the quiet certainty of a man who never doubts where he’s going.
He stops beside the bouquet.
For a moment, he simply looks down at it.
