Chapter 2
Preston lay sprawled across the cushions, clutching his twisted wrist, his chest heaving as he stared up at his bride in sheer, paralyzed disbelief.
Giulietta stood tall in the center of the sunlit suite, holding the steel club loosely in her right hand, the heavy head resting against the floorboards. Her immaculate veil cascaded down her back untouched; not a single hair of her dark, sculpted updo was out of place.
Before Preston could scramble upright, the brass deadbolt on the bridal door rattled violently from the hallway.
A master key turned in the cylinder. The heavy oak door swung inward with a sharp thud.
Warren Hale strode into the room. At sixty-six, the patriarch of the Hale empire possessed the imposing, barrel-chested build of an old-money warlord. He was dressed in an impeccable charcoal three-piece suit, an antique gold signet ring gleaming on his pinky finger, a gold pocket watch chain draped across his vest. His florid, rosy face was tight with simmering fury.
"What the hell is going on in here?" Warren demanded, his voice booming off the high ceiling. "The string quartet has started the processional! The mayor is sitting in the second row, and—"
Warren froze mid-sentence.
He took in the scene with wide, disbelieving eyes: his thirty-nine-year-old son groaning on the sofa, clutching his bruised wrist, and Giulietta standing over him with a weapon in her hand.
Warren’s jaw tightened into iron. He took two aggressive strides forward, pointing an accusatory, shaking finger straight at Giulietta’s face.
“Put that down!” Warren bellowed, his American accent grating with tyrannical authority. “You’re marrying into my family! You show my son the respect his name commands!”
Giulietta did not flinch beneath his roar. She didn't drop her gaze.
With slow, deliberate indifference, she uncurled her fingers.
The heavy metal golf club fell, clattering loudly across the floorboards until it rolled to a halt directly against Preston’s polished leather shoes.
Then, from the grand corridor behind Warren, the sound of synchronized, heavy footsteps echoed through the hallway.
Ten towering men dressed in bespoke, shadow-black suits stepped through the open doorway, filing into the suite and lining the walls with military precision. Every man was broad-shouldered, cold-eyed, and wore an identical silver pin on his lapel—a coiled serpent striking an anchor, the ancient sigil of the Marconi syndicate. At their head stood Silvio, Giulietta’s chief of security, his hand resting casually inside his jacket over a concealed shoulder holster.
Warren’s chest seized. He spun around, staring at the armed capos who now blocked every exit from the bridal suite.
Giulietta smoothed the lace of her gown, stepping forward until her shadow fell over both men.
May you like
“No,” Giulietta whispered, her voice quiet, lethal, and vibrating with absolute sovereignty. “Your son was marrying into mine.”
Warren’s mouth parted, but no sound escaped. Two of the Marconi bodyguards stepped forward, their massive frames cutting off the sunlight, pinning the Hale patriarch against the open threshold.
