Chapter 2 - The Bride Who Ran
Isabella collapsed before anyone could ask what she meant.
Luca caught her before she hit the marble.
I stood frozen.
For a second, all I could see was the blood.
It streaked her white sleeve from elbow to wrist, bright against the satin. Her dark hair had come loose from what must once have been an elaborate bridal style. One shoe was missing. Her breathing was shallow.
“Call the doctor,” Luca ordered.
Aldo was already moving.
I knelt beside Isabella.
“Bella?”
Her eyes opened.
“Elena.”
“What happened?”
She gripped my wrist.
“Don't let Vittorio take you.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“Why?”
Her fingers tightened.
“He planned this.”
Then her eyes rolled back.
I looked at Luca.
He was already lifting her.
Even unconscious, Isabella looked tiny in his arms.
“Where are you taking her?”
“Guest suite.”
“I’m coming.”
He didn't argue.
We followed Aldo upstairs.
Within fifteen minutes, the mansion no longer resembled a wedding venue.
Flowers remained.
Champagne remained.
The string quartet had apparently been dismissed.
Security doubled.
A physician arrived through a side entrance.
Guests were told there had been a family emergency.
No one was allowed to leave until Luca's security team recorded their names.
I sat outside the guest room with my mother.
She held my hand.
“Your brother isn't answering.”
“I know.”
“What was he doing with Isabella?”
“I don't know.”
“Did Vittorio involve him?”
“I don't know.”
My mother closed her eyes.
She looked older than she had that morning.
Matteo was twenty-four.
Brilliant.
Stubborn.
The first person in our family to graduate college.
He had been accepted into medical school six months earlier.
The tuition deposit alone had nearly destroyed us.
Vittorio had offered to cover it.
At the time, my mother called it generosity.
I had called it suspicious.
Now I wished I had been more suspicious.
Luca came out of the room.
“How is she?”
“Cuts. Bruising. No gunshot or stab wound.”
My mother whispered, “Thank God.”
“Doctor thinks she was in a vehicle accident.”
I stood.
“She was with Matteo.”
“We don't know that.”
“You showed me the photograph.”
“I showed you a photograph of them in a car. We don't know what happened afterward.”
I appreciated that he didn't immediately accuse my brother.
“Can Isabella talk?”
“Not yet.”
“Then what do we do?”
Luca looked at my mother.
“Mrs. Conti, Aldo will take you to another room.”
She stood.
“No.”
“Mom.”
“I already left once. I'm not leaving again.”
Luca considered her.
“Fine.”
He called Aldo over.
“Bring food.”
“I’m not hungry,” my mother said.
“That wasn't a question.”
She stared at him.
I waited for her to become offended.
Instead, she pointed a finger at him.
“You're very bossy.”
Aldo looked horrified.
I bit my lip.
Luca glanced at me.
“Apparently.”
For the first time that day, my mother smiled.
It lasted three seconds.
Then Luca's security chief approached.
“Boss.”
He handed Luca a tablet.
“We found the sedan.”
“Where?”
“Abandoned under the East River overpass.”
“Blood?”
“Some.”
My mother gripped my hand.
“Matteo?”
“No sign of him.”
Luca looked at the screen.
“Cameras?”
“Traffic camera caught another vehicle stopping behind them.”
“What vehicle?”
“Gray SUV.”
“Plate?”
“Stolen.”
“Who got out?”
The guard swiped.
A grainy image appeared.
A man.
Tall.
Dark coat.
Face turned away.
Then a second image.
Vittorio.
My uncle.
My mother gasped.
“That can't be…”
I felt sick.
Luca's jaw tightened.
“Where is Vittorio now?”
“We don't know.”
“You told him to leave,” I said.
“I also had men follow him.”
“And?”
“He lost them.”
“How?”
The security chief answered.
“He knew exactly where our cameras ended.”
That changed everything.
Luca looked at Aldo.
“Someone gave him the route.”
Aldo went pale.
“You think we have a leak?”
“I think Vittorio knew more about my security than he should.”
My mother sat back down.
“This is because of the marriage?”
Luca didn't answer immediately.
Then Isabella's voice came from the doorway.
“No.”
We turned.
She stood there wrapped in a robe, pale but conscious.
The doctor protested behind her.
“You need to lie down.”
“I've been lying down for eighteen months.”
Her eyes found Luca.
“The marriage was never about peace.”
He moved toward her.
“Then tell me what it was about.”
Isabella looked at me.
“Protection.”
“For whom?” I asked.
“You.”
I almost laughed from confusion.
“Me?”
She nodded.
“Vittorio needed you inside this house.”
Luca's expression darkened.
“Why?”
“Because Elena's father left something here.”
My lungs stopped working.
“My father?”
Isabella nodded.
My father, Carlo Conti, had died when I was seventeen.
Heart attack.
Forty-nine years old.
Collapsed in the restaurant kitchen.
At least that's what we had always been told.
“What could he possibly have left in Luca's house?”
“Not this house.”
Isabella looked at Luca.
“The old Bellandi property.”
Luca stared at her.
“My father's estate?”
“Yes.”
Aldo swore quietly.
I looked between them.
“What are you talking about?”
Isabella moved slowly toward a chair.
The doctor gave up trying to stop her.
“Carlo worked for Vittorio.”
“I know.”
“No, Elena. You know he managed accounting.”
“Yes.”
“He wasn't just an accountant.”
I felt my mother's hand close around mine.
“What was he?”
Isabella swallowed.
“Auditor.”
“For what?”
Silence.
Luca answered.
“The families.”
I looked at him.
“You knew my father?”
“I knew the name.”
“Why didn't you say anything?”
“Because until thirty seconds ago, I didn't know you were his daughter.”
I stared.
My father had rarely talked about work.
He said numbers were boring.
He said family businesses were complicated.
He said Vittorio paid well.
Then he died.
And everything changed.
Our savings disappeared into medical bills and debt.
Vittorio became the man who occasionally rescued us.
The generous uncle.
The powerful relative.
Now Isabella was telling me my father had audited criminal organizations.
“Why would Vittorio need me here?”
“Because Carlo hid evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“Transactions.”
Luca's expression became perfectly still.
“What kind?”
“I don't know exactly.”
Isabella looked at him.
“But your father knew.”
Luca's eyes sharpened.
“My father died before Carlo.”
“Yes.”
“Eleven years ago.”
“Carlo died ten years ago.”
I felt cold.
One year apart.
Luca asked, “Where is the evidence?”
“I don't know.”
“Then how does Vittorio?”
“He doesn't. That's the problem.”
She looked at me.
“He thinks your father left you the clue.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Did Carlo give you anything before he died?”
“No.”
“Think.”
“I was seventeen.”
“A key? Jewelry? A letter?”
I shook my head.
Then stopped.
My mother noticed.
“What?”
I looked at her.
“Dad's cookbook.”
Her face changed.
After my father died, I inherited the black notebook he used in the restaurant.
Recipes.
Supplier notes.
Family jokes.
Nothing valuable.
At least I thought nothing was valuable.
“Where is it?” Isabella asked.
“My apartment.”
Luca took out his phone.
“We'll secure it.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m going.”
“That isn't safe.”
“It belongs to me.”
“And someone kidnapped your brother today.”
“That is exactly why I'm going.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Do you always do the opposite of what you're told?”
“When strangers start controlling my life? Yes.”
“We met today.”
“Exactly.”
Aldo looked away, possibly hiding amusement.
Luca stepped closer.
At my height, I was used to looking men in the eye.
With him, I had to tilt my head.
“I am not your enemy,” he said.
“I don't know what you are.”
For the first time, something vulnerable flickered in his expression.
Gone instantly.
“Fair.”
He put the phone away.
“We go together.”
I hesitated.
“Fine.”
My mother started to object.
Luca stopped her gently.
“She'll have security.”
“I don't trust security.”
“Neither do I anymore.”
That silenced everyone.
Thirty minutes later, I sat beside Luca in the back of an armored SUV.
The emerald gown had been replaced with black trousers and a sweater borrowed from someone on the staff.
Luca had removed his tuxedo jacket.
He looked less like a groom.
More dangerous somehow.
We drove through the city with two security vehicles around us.
“You really were going to marry Isabella for peace?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“No romance?”
“No.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
He looked at me.
“Is this interrogation relevant?”
“I’m deciding whether you're human.”
“Result?”
“Pending.”
He almost smiled.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Boyfriend.”
“No.”
“Ever?”
“Several.”
“Several?”
“Don't sound scandalized.”
“I wasn't.”
“You sounded scandalized.”
“I was calculating how stupid they must have been.”
I turned toward him.
“What does that mean?”
“You're difficult to ignore.”
I didn't know what to do with that.
Men had called me beautiful before.
Usually with conditions.
Beautiful for a big girl.
Beautiful if I lost weight.
Beautiful when I dressed carefully.
Luca didn't add a condition.
So I changed the subject.
“Why are women afraid of you?”
He looked out the window.
“Some have reasons.”
“That isn't comforting.”
“It wasn't meant to be.”
“Have you killed people?”
His gaze returned to me.
I expected him to lie.
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“Were they innocent?”
“No.”
“How convenient.”
“It is.”
“You don't feel guilty?”
“Sometimes.”
That answer surprised me more than denial would have.
“About which ones?”
He looked out the window again.
“Different conversation.”
We reached my building.
The front door was open.
My heart stopped.
“I locked that.”
Luca raised a hand.
His security team moved ahead.
We waited in the SUV.
Two minutes.
Three.
Then his radio crackled.
“Clear.”
We entered.
My apartment door had been forced.
Drawers opened.
Cushions cut.
Cabinets emptied.
My bedroom looked like a hurricane had searched it.
I ran toward the kitchen.
The shelf above the refrigerator was empty.
“No.”
“What?” Luca asked.
“The cookbook.”
Gone.
My knees weakened.
Someone had found it.
Or tried to.
I searched the floor.
Nothing.
Then I noticed flour scattered near the pantry.
A single page lay underneath the table.
I pulled it out.
My father's handwriting.
Tomato sauce recipe.
At least at first glance.
Then Luca crouched beside me.
“What are those?”
Numbers were written along the margin.
Eleven digits.
Then a letter.
B.
Another number.
I stared.
“I've never noticed them.”
Luca took a photograph.
“Bank account?”
“Maybe.”
I flipped the page.
There was writing on the back.
Not a recipe.
Three words.
BELLANDI. WEST CELLAR.
My skin prickled.
Luca read it.
“My father's estate.”
A sound came from the bedroom.
Both of us froze.
Luca stood and pulled a handgun from the back of his waistband.
I hadn't even known he was carrying one.
He motioned for me to stay.
Obviously, I followed him.
He looked irritated.
I ignored him.
The bedroom window was open.
Curtain moving.
No one there.
Then my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
I opened the message.
A photograph loaded.
Matteo sat tied to a chair.
Blood at his temple.
My brother's eyes were open.
Terrified.
Below it was one sentence.
BRING ELENA TO THE WEST CELLAR BY MIDNIGHT.
Another message arrived immediately.
COME ALONE OR MATTEO DIES.
I looked at Luca.
Before I could speak, a third message appeared.
This one contained a photograph taken seconds earlier.
From outside my bedroom window.
Luca and I were visible inside.
Someone had been watching us.
Then the bedroom closet door slowly moved.
May you like
Luca raised his weapon.
The handle turned from the inside.
