Chapter 2 - The Bride's Betrayal
I stared at him, my mind unable to process his words. “Your fiancée?” I echoed, my voice shaking. “You want to keep us here? We have nothing to do with this!” “You have everything to do with this now,” Damiano replied smoothly, though his eyes burned with a lethal fire. “Isabella is the daughter of Don Carlo of the Chicago Outfit. This wasn’t just a hit. It was a coup.”
Downstairs, the heavy bronze doors of the mansion groaned open. The other Dons were arriving. “Wait here,” Damiano commanded. “My guards will remain outside. Do not make a sound.” He turned on his heel and walked down the grand staircase as if he hadn't just survived an assassination attempt.
From the balcony of the parlor, hidden in the shadows, I watched the foyer. Four imposing men, surrounded by their own security details, walked in. And right behind them, gliding like a swan in a shimmering silver gown, was Isabella. The shiny lady. She looked stunning, innocent, and completely oblivious to the fact that her trap had failed. “Damiano, darling,” she purred, walking up to kiss his cheek. He didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. He simply looked at her with a gaze so hollow it sent shivers down my spine.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” Damiano announced to the room, his voice carrying over the murmurs. “I apologize for the change in venue, but my study is currently... out of order.” Isabella’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “What happened, Damiano?” Don Carlo, Isabella’s father, asked, frowning.
Damiano snapped his fingers. Two of his largest men dragged a bloodied figure into the center of the pristine marble floor. It was a man. A man with sad, terrified eyes. Emma’s tiny hand gripped my skirt tighter from where we hid. “That’s him, Mommy,” she whispered. I shushed her gently, my heart hammering.
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“This man,” Damiano said, his voice ringing like a judge reading a death sentence, “planted C4 under my desk thirty minutes ago. He confessed under... mild persuasion.” Chaos erupted. Guards drew their weapons. The Dons shouted. Isabella took a step back, her face turning pale. “He also confessed who paid him,” Damiano continued, stepping directly into Isabella’s space. “Isn't that right, my love?” “Damiano, you can't possibly believe—” Isabella began to cry, playing the victim flawlessly. “I don't believe him,” Damiano said coldly. “I believe the little girl who saw you threaten her in my hallway.”
He looked up at the balcony, right at the shadows where I hid. “Bring them down,” he ordered his men. My blood ran cold as the guards escorted Emma and me down the stairs. The eyes of the most dangerous men in America were fixed on a waitress and a six-year-old in a faded dress.
