I didn't answer. I was always good. Emotion was a luxury men like me couldn't afford.
The church was packed—three hundred of New York's most dangerous people acting like they were here to celebrate out of the goodness of their hearts. Politicians who took my money. Judges on my payroll. Business associates whose hands were as bloody as mine. All pretending this was about love instead of what it really was.
Warfare by other means.
This marriage would end a blood feud that had lasted three years. The Lombardos got my protection, my money, my connections. I got their political influence, their old money legitimacy, their East Coast shipping routes.
My father would have approved. If he hadn’t been gunned down six years ago in a "peace meeting" that turned into an ambush.
I flexed my left hand—the platinum wedding band caught the light. Heavy and binding, it felt like an omen. Or maybe fate.
Strategy. Control. Power.
There was no room for anything else.
The flowers were excessive—white roses everywhere, their scent cloying. The music swelled from an organ that probably cost more than most people's houses. Designer dresses, tailored suits, enough diamonds to fund a small country.
All of it performative bullshit.
I'd met Bianca Lombardo exactly once. Three months ago, at the contract signing.
She'd walked into my conference room like she owned it—polished to a shine, designer everything, perfectly manicured nails that drummed once on the mahogany table before she sat. Cold beauty and calculating eyes. She'd looked at me with appraisal, not fear.
I'd respected that.
"The terms are acceptable," she'd said, skimming the contract without actually reading it.
"You don't want to review it more carefully?"
Her smile was sharp. "I know what I'm getting. Unlimited money, social status, protection of the Monti name. You get a wife who won't embarrass you and an alliance with my father."
"And?"
"And heirs, eventually. Once we've established the parameters."
She'd signed without hesitation.
Perfect. A woman who understood the game. Who wouldn't expect love or devotion or any of the things I couldn't give. She'd stay out of my business, host dinners for my associates, look beautiful on my arm, and ask no questions about the blood that occasionally stained my hands.
In return, she'd have everything money could buy.
Fair exchange.
The music changed. The wedding march.
Guests rose in a rustle of silk and expensive fabric. I turned to watch my bride enter.
There—at the back of the church. A figure in white.
The veil was thick, obscuring her face entirely, but I could see her shape. Slender. Moving down the aisle… too slowly.
Something prickled at the base of my skull—instinct honed by years of survival in a world where hesitation meant death. The way she walked was uncertain, almost stumbling.
Bianca hadn't stumbled into anything in her life. I’d learned that from the background checks and surveillance.
"She okay?" Piero's voice was barely audible.
I didn't answer. Kept watching.
