The first rule of crashing a mob wedding?
Don’t.
Especially not when your name is sitting pretty at the very top of the ‘Do Not Allow In’ list.
Yet here I am—waltzing in like I own the damn place.
Looking for trouble. Daring it to find me.
Because when your hacking skills are sharp enough to carve through government firewalls, slipping onto a wedding guest list?
Child’s play.
But this?
This isn’t some overpriced fairy tale wedding with a signature cocktail menu.
It’s a cathedral of crime—gilded in gold, teeth bared behind chandelier fangs, humming with blood money and champagne lies.
Every man here is a predator in pressed Armani.
Killers in cufflinks.
Smiles like razors, eyes like loaded guns.
Each one of them could make me disappear.
And me?
I’m the glitch in their perfect system.
The ex who wasn’t invited—
And still showed up, thanks to my best friend’s beautifully reckless plan.
Halsey’s elbow stabs into my side. “Relax, girl,” she purrs, voice like champagne and sin, lips grazing my ear. “I dragged you here for closure. That—or a front-row seat to Luca’s catastrophic fuck-up. Either way, we win.”
“Somehow, I don’t find this very entertaining,” I murmur, eyes scanning the crowd like it might bite.
Halsey flashes a grin full of teeth and mischief.
“You will.”
Why am I really here?
Three months of therapy told me I needed closure.
Something about “reclaiming my narrative.”
But the way my pulse is rabbiting against my ribs?
This doesn’t feel like healing.
This feels like walking barefoot into a room full of snakes.
I ground myself in the reflection staring back from a gilded hallway mirror—
The woman I see is fire in human form—curves that could start wars, wrapped in a dress that clings like it’s begging for mercy. Full breasts testing the limits of silk. Hips that Luca once called “too much” now carving their space in the world like they goddamn own it.
For one glorious second, I see what Halsey sees:
A bombshell.
Not the kind tucked away like a shameful secret.
No. This woman could burn his entire world down.
Let them stare.
Let them whisper.
Because tonight, I’m not the apology. I’m the threat.
Luca wanted me hidden? Too damn bad.
I’m done being anyone’s secret.
I take a breath. The air tastes like champagne and blood money.
Gold-leaf arches curve like the ribs of a golden beast. Chandeliers drip like diamond fangs, and even the flowers look weaponized—white roses arranged like sacrifices.
Every inch of this place screams one thing: This is power. You are prey.
Halsey nudges me again, her grin razor-sharp. “We might get lucky and find you a badass with fuck-boy energy.”
I snort, my grip biting into the seams of my clutch.
“You need to be stopped.”
She winks. “And yet… always right.”
A hush ripples through the crowd.
The quartet’s strings tighten like a noose as the air changes.
There he is. Luca Bellacino. My ex. The human embodiment of a red flag in a Tom Ford tux. Same smirk. Same diamond ‘LB’ cufflinks.
Though now, I’m convinced they stand for Lying Bastard.
The crowd rises.
My pulse riots.
Guests dressed in designer suits and chic dresses murmur in hushed excitement.
My heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to escape—just like I should.
I can’t decide if it’s because of being in the same room as the man who casually tossed me aside for not being good enough—or the knowledge that half these guests have ties to organized crime.
I recognize more faces than I care to admit, having done discreet tech work for some of them in the past. Cybersecurity patches, data encryption, the occasional cleanup job when their less-than-legal activities left a digital footprint.
All anonymous.
All untraceable.
The only reason I’m not fish food in the Hudson? They know my skills—not my face.
Luca’s family is royalty here.
He’s the son of Dante Bellacino, the capo di tutti capi, the kind of man whose name causes fear in certain circles.
Never seen him in person. Only whispers.
Too powerful to photograph.
Too dangerous to cross.
The Don is a shadow, never caught in the light.
That alone kept me from burning Luca down after the breakup. Oh, I wanted to. A keystroke here. A wire transfer there. Air his dirty digital laundry. But he wasn’t worth it.
I start to fidget.
Halsey yanks me down. “Chill, babe. We’re nobodies here for the champagne. No one’s looking at us.”
“Except we kind of stand out.”
She smirks. “Then let them look. You’re a walking knockout.”
‘I shouldn’t be here.’ The truth slips out like a bruise. This isn’t closure. It’s a slow-motion train wreck.
Luca stands at the altar like the lie he is. That smile—the one that said you’re perfect but never dared say you’re mine.
I came here to move on. But rage has better timing.
The music changes.
Guests stand.
The bride enters.
Sarah Kensington-Jones glides forward—Luca’s plastic-perfect bride. Platinum hair. Lips plumped to bursting. A smile sharp enough to draw blood.
“Christ,” Halsey mutters. “She looks like she’s never eaten a carb in her life.”
She says it too loudly. Heads turn.
Sarah used to hover when Luca and I were together. Always too eager. Too fake. The kind of girl who measured his future with her last name before I was even gone.
Now she’s wearing his ring.
And I realize: She didn’t just win. She hunted.
Deep down, I knew Luca was never mine to lose. He wanted his girl to be compliant and uncomplicated. And me? I’ve got rough edges and a heart that doesn’t know how to shrink.
I’m not perfect. But I’m real.
And that was always too much for him.
Sarah approaches the altar, and Luca steps down to meet her, his grip on her elbow more like a display of ownership than affection.
The officiant begins speaking in a solemn tone, reciting the usual lines. Love. Fidelity. Lies.
Luca’s not even looking at his bride.
His gaze drifts over the crowd—searching.
Shit.
This was supposed to be some kind of “confront your past” therapy session. Instead, I feel a sudden regret slamming into me.
Get out of here before he sees you, my mind screams.
Clearly I hadn’t thought this through.
‘I’ve seen enough. Let’s bail.’
My fingers clamp around Halsey’s wrist. She doesn’t flinch—just meets my serious gaze with understanding.
‘Now?’
‘Now.’
Luckily, we’re seated close enough to the exit that we don’t have to push past too many people. No awkward apologies. No curious stares.
Just clean air and an escape plan.
I start to exhale, chest loosening, pulse slowing—
And then…
My stiletto snags on a ridge of polished marble.
Fuck.
Everything slows.
One second, I’m striding toward freedom—head high, almost smug.
The next, I’m airborne.
Clutch flying.
Dress riding up.
A gasp tearing from my throat like a warning flare.
And then—
I’m caught.
Two hands.
One at my waist.
The other fisted in the back of my dress.
He hauls me upright like it’s effortless.
But the way he touches me? It’s anything but careless.
It’s intentional.
I slam into a chest made of brick and body heat.
Broad. Solid. Unyielding.
He doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t flinch.
Just stands there like a mountain I ran into at full speed.
He smells like leather and quiet power.
And something expensive and deliciously masculine and vaguely dangerous.
My hands land on his chest.
Holy mother of upper body strength.
Who is this man?
I look up.
Silver-streaked hair. Strong jaw. That perfect hint of stubble.
And those eyes—hazel with gold edges.
Unshaken. Unapologetic.
Un-fucking-real.
He’s a silver fox.
Not “hot for his age.”
He’s hot. Period. Full stop.
End of me.
“Careful,” he says, voice rough and low.
Midnight gravel over velvet.
Why does his voice sound like something I’d download on a sleep app just to make bad decisions?
He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t leer.
Just watches me like he’s not surprised I ended up in his arms.
Like he called it.
“Wouldn’t take you for the clumsy type,” he murmurs.
I swallow. “I… uh.”
Get it together.
Words. Normal ones.
He tilts his head slightly. Watches me like he’s waiting to see if I’ll bolt or melt.
And damn if his proximity doesn’t make my knees forget their purpose.
‘Sorry, I’m usually better at staying vertical,’ I finally manage to say as I brush imaginary lint off my dress.
There’s no lint. I’m just surviving.
“Hmm,” he says.
That’s it. Just a sound.
And somehow, it’s hotter than a full sentence.
Since when did indifference become an aphrodisiac?
He lets go of me slowly.
Too slowly.
One hand dragging from my waist, the other brushing the back of my dress.
Was that… sensual?
Was I just… handled?
I barely have time to regroup before Halsey appears.
“You okay?” she asks, eyes scanning me to make sure I didn’t break a bone.
“Yep. All good. Just temporarily airborne.”
Her gaze slides over to him, then back to me.
She raises one brow, but says nothing. Just pulls out her phone and mutters, “One sec—need to take this.”
Translation: I’m giving you a moment. Try not to combust.
She steps away.
He hasn’t moved.
“You’re still shaking,” he says with a hint of concern in his eyes.
“Yeah. Adrenaline,” I reply. “And the soul-crushing public humiliation.”
There it is—a flash of amusement in his eyes.
The corner of his mouth lifts.
His first real reaction—and it wrecks me.
God, he’s lethal.
“You want a minute?”
I nod before my brain can veto. “That would be great. Is there somewhere I can compose myself?”
He doesn’t answer—just turns, all quiet command and tailored menace.
Walks like the kind of man the world rearranges itself for.
And I follow.
Because I’m clearly making fantastic life choices today.
We step into a side room—quiet, low light.
Heavy furniture and heavier silence.
He lingers near the door. I move toward a marble table and grip the edge like it might anchor me.
He watches me. Still. Silent.
Unmoving.
He’s the kind of man who doesn’t chase. He waits—and the world bends to meet him.
“I just needed a minute. I’m fine,” I lie, sliding into the polished calm I wear like armor—the kind you learn to stitch together when you grow up being passed around in foster homes and told to be ‘grateful.’
The same armor my therapist says kept me alive… but won’t let anyone all the way in.
“You’re rattled,” he says, voice gentler now. “Which doesn’t happen to women like you.”
I cross my arms, the silk of my dress suddenly too hot against my skin.
“And what exactly does that mean—‘women like me’?”
“Strong. Sharp. Impossibly put together. The kind who exits the second things get too real.”
He walks past me, unhurried, until he’s close enough to steal my breath.
Close enough that even the air feels compromised.
I open my mouth—then close it.
Because damn it, he’s not wrong.
And that pisses me off almost as much as it turns me on.
Clearly I have a type: dangerous, observant… and probably armed.
“Maybe I just needed space,” I mutter, knowing damn well it’s a lie I want to believe.
“You need a release,” he says, eyes dragging over me. “But you won’t ask. You’ll bury it under logic and act like that ache doesn’t exist.”
My pulse roars in my ears.
“Do you always psychoanalyze women at weddings?” I ask, trying to sound annoyed instead of breathless.
“No,” he says softly. “Just the ones who fascinate me.”
Oh no.
Don’t like that. Don’t feel that.
That should’ve been a red flag. Hell, all his lines should come with a warning label.
He’s a walking disaster.
A beautiful, well-dressed catastrophe.
And I don’t even know his name.
He watches me like he’s offering a choice, not making a move. And it’s infuriating how badly I want to say yes to whatever fire he’s holding out.
“I think you’ve been holding yourself together for so long, you’ve forgotten how to let go. I think…”
He lifts his hand, brushing a curl from my cheek.
“You want someone who won’t apologize for wanting you back.”
Game. Over.
I don’t move. Don’t speak.
My entire body goes still—except for the part of me screaming for more.
What am I supposed to say?
Hi, ruin me please?
Because for the first time in months, I don’t want control.
I want him.
“You talk like you’ve already won me,” I say, lifting my chin.
His eyes flare—just slightly.
Surprised. Like I cracked through something most people don’t even get close to.
Like no one talks to him that way.
“I don’t even know your name,” I murmur.
His answer is a slow, easy lie wrapped in truth.
“You don’t need to.”
Ominous. Infuriating. And unnecessarily hot.
“We should go. My friend’s probably wondering if I’ve been murdered or married by now.”
He smirks, just slightly. “She’s smart.”
I nod. Nothing more.
Because I don’t trust myself to say anything sensible.
Knowing me, I’ll ask him to take me somewhere dark—
and wreck me on purpose.
But I’m not ready for that. Not yet.
We walk out together.
Not touching. Not speaking.
But everything about him is heat—right there beside me. Impossible to ignore.
The space between us crackles, electric. Like the air just before a storm.
And all I can think is:
What does a man like that do with his hands when he’s not saving someone…
but claiming them?
And why does every part of me want to be the thing he claims next?
I glance toward the ballroom doors, then back towards his direction, but he’s gone.
Like smoke. Like he was never real.
But I can still feel the imprint of his hands. Still taste the warning in his voice. And in the pit of my stomach, something tells me— This won’t be the last time he catches me.
And I might not want him to let go.
And then—
“Eva?”
Sarah Bellacino. Of course.
The venom in her voice is wrapped in sugar.
And just like that, the spell breaks.
The room tilts. Reality slams back into me with a vengeance.
I brace for impact.
From the corner of my eye, I catch movement—guests rising, stretching, clutching purses and discarded programs.
The ceremony’s just ended, and the feeding frenzy is about to begin.
“Wow,” she purrs. “You look… bold. That dress is definitely working overtime.”
Heat floods my cheeks—rage or shame, I can’t tell.
Soft gasps ripple through the crowd like aftershocks.
Someone coughs—a poor disguise for a laugh.
People freeze.
Heads turn.
“Love that you came, though,” she adds sweetly.
“So empowering to see women own their… volume.”
Her bridesmaids titter—practiced, poisonous—behind flawless, weaponized smiles.
My throat constricts. My skin burns.
I open my mouth to speak—to snap, to scorch, to fight fire with fire—
But nothing comes.
Not a word.
Just silence, loud enough to drown me.
Then—
“That will be enough.”
A voice slices through the air like broken glass.
Low. Rough. Final.
The entire ballroom stills.
Sarah freezes mid-smirk.
And then I see him.
Stepping forward like he owns the ground beneath every foot in this room.
Him.
The silver fox from earlier steps forward, the crowd parting like they know better than to obstruct him.
“Apologize,” he says.
Not loud. Not angry.
Just… absolute.
Like gravity. Unyielding.
My stomach flips.
No.
No, no, no.
It can’t be—
I start to tremble, because something clicks—
A pattern my brain had scrambled to avoid.
The way he watched me. The way everyone else watched him.
From the left, a guest gasps sharply and whispers, “Isn’t that Dante Bellacino? The groom’s father?”
The world screeches to a halt.
My ears buzz. My vision narrows.
The groom’s what?
No.
Fucking.
Way.
The man who just humiliated the bride on her wedding day—
Who touched me like he owned me—
Who looked at me like he wanted to ruin me—
Is my ex’s father.
Dante Bellacino. The Don.
Sarah stammers. “I—it was just a joke, Mr. Bellacino—”
“Now.”
One word. Spoken like a loaded gun with the safety off.
She flinches. Visibly.
“S-sorry,” she breathes, the word limp and empty.
But the apology doesn’t matter.
Because the power just shifted.
And every person in this ballroom felt it.
He turns to me. Not with a smile.
Just a quiet, lethal promise in his eyes.
“You don’t let people talk to you like that. If you walk out now, I’ll respect it—but if it’s up to me? You’re staying.”
The crowd buzzes.
“Isn’t that…?”
“The Don himself?”
“The groom’s father just defended the ex?”
And just like that, the bride is no longer the story.
I’m the girl he just defended like I belong to him.
The girl who just stole the spotlight from the altar.
Because now?
No one’s looking at Sarah.
No one’s looking at Luca.
Everyone is staring at me.
