Chapter 3
The heavy, imposing doors of the adjoining corridor swung open. The natural, brilliant light of the bridal suite spilled out into the hallway as Alessandro Rizzano stepped into the room.
At thirty-four years old, Alessandro was profoundly handsome, possessing a deeply masculine, distinctly Mafia Boss-like presence. He had thick, neatly styled dark hair, an angular face, a sharply defined jawline, and a short, well-trimmed full beard. His fair, rosy skin was flawless, contrasting sharply with the intricate, artistic tattoos creeping up his neck and visible beneath the rolled sleeves of his unbuttoned, tailored dress shirt. His cold, sharp, intimidating eyes swept the room with predatory precision.
He had heard the screaming.
Alessandro stopped dead in his tracks. The bright, cinematic colors of the room seemed to freeze around him. He saw Rosalie kneeling on the marble floor, shielding a violently shaking figure. He saw the electric clippers vibrating in his fiancée's manicured hand. And then, his piercing gaze dropped to the floor.
He saw the thick, severed clump of his daughter’s hair resting on the white marble.
"Livia," Alessandro said. His voice was deep, slightly raspy, and naturally authoritative. He spoke slowly, with terrifyingly controlled pauses between his words. His volume was incredibly low, yet it commanded the entire room.
Livia heard her father’s voice. She turned her head, her face red and stained with tears, her ruined hair falling unevenly around her cheeks.
"Daddy… Daddy," Livia sobbed, her voice breaking into a breathless, desperate hiccup. She broke away from Rosalie and ran across the room, her small flats slapping against the marble.
Alessandro dropped to one knee, wrapping his powerful, tattooed arms around his three-year-old daughter. He pulled her tightly against his unbuttoned shirt, burying his face in what remained of her curls. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, his sharply defined jawline locking into stone.
"I am here. Little one," Alessandro whispered, his measured words vibrating against her chest. "You are safe."
He slowly stood up, keeping Livia lifted securely in his left arm. He turned his cold, sharp eyes toward Bianca.
Bianca’s confident laughter died instantly in her throat. The heavy diamond jewelry suddenly felt like a noose around her neck. She took a step backward, the electric clippers still buzzing uselessly in her hand.
"Alessandro, darling," Bianca stammered, her American accent pitching up nervously. "It was an accident. She wouldn't hold still, and the clippers slipped. I was just trying to tidy her up for the photos."
"You cut. My daughter’s hair," Alessandro stated. It was not a question. It was a cold, dangerous execution of fact.
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"She was being a brat!" Bianca defended herself, her fear quickly mutating back into arrogant defense. "I am trying to prepare for our wedding, and your staff is letting her run wild!"
Alessandro did not yell. He did not raise his voice by a single decibel. "Rosalie. Take my daughter. Into the hall."
