If a single ruined wedding dress could teach me everything I needed to know about a man's blood, then maybe I should consider myself lucky.
After all, I was finally seeing Marco for who he really was. No delusions left.
Tonight was the Sunday sit-down where I'd officially meet Lorenzo Falcone.
First impressions were everything in our world, and I knew I had to look my best. I didn't want to give anyone at that table a reason to question me, especially not after everything that had happened with Marco and Carla.
I took a quick moment to compose myself and gave myself a little pep talk. When I felt ready, I headed down to the underground garage. And that's when I noticed it. Marco's Maserati, rocking gently back and forth in the far corner, away from the soldier posted at the elevator.
Curiosity gnawed at me as I walked closer, but when I got close enough to see inside the half-open window, my stomach twisted. There they were. Marco and Carla. She was sprawled across his lap, her eyes half-lidded as she moved up and down.
Even though I already knew Marco didn't love me, seeing it with my own eyes still hit like a punch to the chest.
For a brief moment, our eyes met. There was a flash of panic in his gaze, but it was gone in a second, quickly replaced by that smirk of his. To taunt me even more, he gently swept Carla's hair aside and kissed her deeply, his movements slow and exaggerated.
Carla's soft whimpers echoed off the concrete, loud and calculated.
I turned away, keeping my face neutral, and climbed into my own car. I had more important things to focus on tonight.
On the way to the Falcone estate, I stopped to pick up a gift, a high-end silk tie for Lorenzo. When I arrived, I was surprised to find Marco pulling through the gates at the same time, the guard waving him past without a word.
He stepped out of his car, and from where I stood, I could clearly see used condoms scattered across the passenger seat.
'Real classy.'
For a moment, his expression flickered with something like embarrassment when he saw me holding the gift bag. But that passed quickly, replaced by his usual smug look.
"Bought me a gift?" he drawled, taking a step toward me. "Let me see it."
I jerked the bag behind my back, pulling it out of his reach. "It's not for you," I said flatly.
Marco snorted, blowing out a cloud of smoke like I wasn't even worth his time. "You saw what happened in the garage, right?" he said, his voice annoyingly casual. "I know you're obsessed with me, but I've told you before. This wedding is yours, but the pact under Omertà belongs to Carla. She's the one being slighted here."
He leaned in a little closer, his arrogance growing. "It's perfectly normal for us to do what we just did. She's my wife-to-be by blood, after all. Oh, and the house I keep for us? She'll probably stop by once in a while for a night or two. You'll have to get used to it eventually. It's for your own good."
I couldn't believe the audacity of this man.
Even though I'd already decided I wouldn't marry him, I hadn't expected him to be so shameless, so blatant in flaunting his infidelity right in front of me.
I turned to walk away, but, of course, he grabbed my arm again.
"Listen," he said, his voice lowering, "my uncle will be at the table tonight. He carries weight on the Commission, so this is a big deal. I'm giving you a lot of respect by letting you sit there at all."
I barely suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. "One more thing. If the old man and your father ask about the pact, just tell them it's already been sworn, alright? And about Carla's little injury this afternoon, you'll need to apologize to her after dinner. Don't forget. Until the wedding is final, I can still change my mind."
With that, he strode through the doors of the Falcone estate like he hadn't just made a complete fool of himself.
I let out a long breath, gripping the gift bag in my hand. Under it, my thumb moved on its own, tracing the bare inside of my ring finger, the ghost of a marriage I would not repeat.
'Fine,' I told myself. 'He'll find out soon enough who I'm really marrying.'
Most of the Falcone patriarchs were already seated inside the dining hall, the air thick with cigar smoke and the faint trace of garlic from the kitchen. Lorenzo hadn't arrived yet, so I quietly slipped into a chair far from Marco, deliberately leaving the seat beside me empty for him.
Marco noticed immediately and frowned, irritation crossing his face. Annoyed, he got up and moved to sit right next to me.
"You're getting more dramatic these days," he muttered, eyeing the empty chair on my other side. "There's already a seat saved for you down there. Why are you trying to make a scene?"
I ignored him. I was just about to tell him that the seat wasn't for him when a tall, commanding figure appeared in the doorway, and every conversation at the long table died at once.
Lorenzo entered the dining hall, his tailored suit cut close to a frame that moved like contained violence. His strides were steady and unhurried, each one radiating a poise the whole room straightened to acknowledge.
