The windows are heavily tinted, I twist to look back as we pull away from the cathedral grounds. Guests still mill on the steps, waiting for the bride who’s never coming.
“You should be thanking me,” he says, voice casual, like we’re sharing small talk. “Andrea’s a loser. You’d have hated being married to him.”
I turn my head slowly, meeting his gaze head-on through the veil that’s still obscuring my face.
“Oh, I’m sure you’re a real upgrade,” I say, voice dripping acid. “Kidnapping brides in the middle of their wedding, very chivalrous. Do you practice that line in front of the mirror, or does it just come naturally when you’re ruining someone’s plan?”
His lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but close. One corner of his mouth lifts. “At least I didn’t need an arranged marriage to secure my power.”
“Oh, I’m sure you secured it the old-fashioned way,” I reply sweetly.
His eyes darken. “Careful.”
“I’m just saying, if you’re kidnapping brides for attention, you might want to?—”
He cuts me off, leaning in just enough that his presence fills the space between us.
“Keep talking,” he says quietly, “and I’ll tape that pretty mouth shut.”
I shut it.
The driver glances in the rearview mirror and they exchange a look. The car accelerates, weaving into traffic. I study him now that we’re moving, really study him. The way he sits, back straight but relaxed, one arm draped across the seat, screams control.
The extraction was too clean. This isn’t some desperate rogue move. This is organized, calculated.
As I study his face, the pieces click. I’ve seen him before, not up close, but across crowded ballrooms and at charity galas where Massimo paraded us like trophies.
He’s Nico Lombardi. Port Syndicate Don. The man who controls the docks my father needs to keep his weapons flowing east. One of the few rivals who can actually hurt the Gallo alliance before it’s even sealed.
“If you’re taking me because you think I can give you dirt on my father, you’re barking up the wrong tree,” I say, keeping my voice even despite the fear zipping through me,
Nico doesn’t even turn his head just a slow exhale through his nose, like I’m a fly buzzing too close.
“Really?”
“He doesn’t tell any of us anything.”
He quirks a brow. “So you’re useless?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you said.”
I lean back against the seat, the zip ties biting into my wrists as I shift. “If you’re expecting trade secrets, you picked the wrong Caruso.”
A small exhale leaves him. Almost a sigh, the first real crack in that iron composure. “What part of be quiet isn’t getting through that pretty head?”
“I understand it perfectly,” I shoot back, inspecting my fingers like they are suddenly interesting. “I’m choosing not to participate.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“I know who you are,” I add.
He arches a brow.
“Nico Lombardi.”
A pause.
