Chapter 3
The air inside the bridal suite turned freezing cold, despite the warm morning sun spilling across the Persian carpet.
Warren Hale swallowed hard, his fingers twitching near his gold signet ring as he attempted to summon four decades of aristocratic bluster. "What is the meaning of this theater, Giulietta? Silvio, step down! You work for the port authority alliance—an alliance my board finances!"
Silvio didn't even blink. "I take orders from the Don, Mr. Hale. And the Don is wearing a white dress."
Preston pushed himself up from the settee, his fair face flushed with humiliating panic. "Dad, she attacked me! She disarmed me like a street thug! Call the private security team at the gates!"
"Your private security at the gates surrendered their weapons twelve minutes ago, Preston," Giulietta said smoothly, walking toward the vanity. She picked up a crystal decanter of mineral water, poured a modest measure into a glass, and took a slow, elegant sip. "They were paid four months in advance by my accounts team. In this city, loyalty costs money. And your family ran out of liquidity in November."
Warren’s rosy cheeks drained of color. "That’s a lie. The Hale conglomerate holds ninety million dollars in assets—"
"Ninety million in toxic real estate bonds leveraged against the Atlantic shipping lanes," Giulietta cut him off, setting the crystal glass down with a crisp ring. "Bonds that defaulted seventy-two hours ago. Did you really think I agreed to this marriage because I was charmed by your son's golf handicap, Warren?"
Preston stumbled to his feet, leaning heavily against the armrest of the sofa. "You... you knew? You agreed to this wedding knowing our balance sheets?"
Giulietta turned her gaze upon her former fiancé, her eyes cold as winter frost.
"I agreed to this wedding because my father spent fifteen years trying to uncover who funded the car bomb that murdered my older brother in Boston," Giulietta murmured, every syllable measured with terrifying precision. "He died last year without the answer. But three weeks ago, my forensic accountants finally cracked the offshore routing numbers on your Caribbean shell corporation."
Warren took half a step backward, his back hitting Silvio’s broad chest. "You... you have no proof of that. That was a municipal zoning dispute! It had nothing to do with your brother!"
"The wire transfer bore your private digital signature, Warren," Giulietta said, taking three slow, unhurried steps toward the old man. The rustle of her silk train sounded like dry leaves scraping across a tombstone. "Five hundred thousand dollars transferred to a mercenary cell in Rhode Island forty-eight hours before Leo’s car exploded outside the statehouse."
Preston’s jaw dropped. He whipped his head toward his father. "Dad? What is she talking about? You told me Leo Marconi died in a drunken drag race!"
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"Shut your mouth, Preston!" Warren snarled, sweat beading across his forehead beneath his silver hair.
"Your father lied to you, Preston," Giulietta said softly, tilting her head. "Just like he lied to your mother before he put her in that private asylum in Vermont. He needed a Marconi heir dead so he could force an alliance with my father. And when my father fell ill, Warren thought he could send his cowardly son to put a ring on my finger, take over our docks, and bury his murder under a marriage certificate."
