Giana
Back at the penthouse, Franco wrapped his arms around me from behind.
"I know you're stressed," he murmured against my neck. "But you need to relax. Why don't you write something? Your fans are waiting for an update."
He released me and walked to the kitchen to fix himself a drink.
I pulled the ring from my finger.
I threw it in the junk drawer.
Franco didn't hear.
I sat at my laptop and logged into my author account.
My book, Smoke and Mirrors, was a thriller about a woman who marries a spy.
The comments section on my reader forum buzzed.
Update soon!
Is the husband actually the villain?
I opened a new document. My fingers flew over the keyboard. I didn't need to invent scenarios. I just had to transcribe my memories.
Chapter Fifty-Six: The protagonist finds the second receipt. She realizes the man sleeping beside her is a stranger. She doesn't scream. She just sharpens her knife.
I paused and opened a separate, secure file.
I wasn't just writing fiction. I was compiling evidence. I started printing photos of the duplicate receipt, the side-by-side photos of the rings.
"What's that?" Franco asked, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I spun the chair, blocking his view of the file, grabbing the papers from the tray.
"Research," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "For the new book. Tax documents, property deeds. Boring stuff."
I forced a smile.
Little did he know, I was saving the stage for the wedding.
He grunted, utterly disinterested. He didn't even ask the title, let alone glance at a page.
"Good. Everyone loves a happy ending." He glanced at his watch and downed his drink in a practiced move. "Get dressed. Xavier's throwing a party at The Vault. Neutral ground. We have to show face."
I sealed the documents in a thick manila envelope, addressed to a journalist, and hid it at the very bottom of my closet.
The Vault was an upscale club where families mingled under a fragile peace.
I put on a black dress.
When we arrived, the music was deafening.
Xavier, Franco's best friend and fellow soldier, waved us over to a VIP booth bathed in dim purple light.
"To the happy couple!" Xavier boomed, raising his glass.
The other soldiers cheered. I forced a smile and raised a glass of water to my lips, the liquid cold and tasteless.
Then I saw her.
Camilla.
She was dressed as a cocktail waitress, but her skirt was too short, her shirt buttons undone too low.
She carried a tray of drinks.
She wasn't supposed to be here. So this wasn't an accident. He'd planted her here. A deliberate provocation.
She reached the table, her eyes locked on Franco. Her hand was visibly shaking.
The crash was sharp, cutting through the bass. Wine splashed onto Xavier's expensive Italian loafers.
"You idiot!" One of the soldiers jumped up, yelling. "Watch what you're doing!"
"I'm so sorry!" Camilla cried, shrinking back, a practiced look of terror on her face. "I slipped!"
"Get her out of here," Xavier snapped, wiping his shoes. "Make her pay for the damage."
Franco slammed his hand on the table. The sound was louder than the subwoofer.
"Enough!" Franco's voice was sharp, his face flushed.
The table went silent. You don't defend the help. There's no kindness in the mafia world. Even if you're a made man.
"She made a mistake," Franco said, his voice tight. "Leave her alone."
Camilla looked at him, eyes wide, tears welling. "Thank you, sir."
Xavier looked from Franco to me, confused. "Franco, relax. She's just a waitress."
"Then let her show some remorse," another soldier sneered, his eyes glinting with drunken malice. "Go on, sweetheart. Give the man you almost soaked a hug. Let him know you're sorry."
It was a setup. Everyone at the table could see it.
Camilla hesitated, then looked at Franco. She took a step towards him, swayed, and dramatically pressed a hand to her forehead.
"I... I feel dizzy," she whispered.
Before I could blink, Franco moved. He stood up, snatched my glass of water from my hand, and turned to her.
"She's allergic to smoke," he announced to the table, the lie so flimsy it was an insult to my intelligence.
He put his arm around her waist, steadying her. In front of everyone. In front of me.
"I've got you," he murmured, meant for her, but loud enough for me to hear.
He held her there, one hand possessively on her hip, while the rest of the table stared, stunned into silence.
He wasn't helping a stranger. He was staking a claim.
My hand tightened on the strap of my clutch, the thin chain biting into my skin.
Not here, I told myself. Not now.
The wedding is your stage. The world is your audience.
Wait. Be patient. Let him be the biggest fool. Then make him pay.
From heaven, to hell.
