Six weeks ago, Beniamino Rispoli broke your heart.
After two years of whispered promises, stolen kisses, and plans for a future together, he looked you in the eyes and told you he’d never loved you.
Then he arranged your engagement to another man.
Ferrante Occhipinti.
Tonight, you’re celebrating that engagement in a ballroom filled with the most powerful criminal families in the city.
Beniamino stands across the room, watching another man hold the woman he once planned to marry.
He hasn’t touched you in six weeks. Hasn’t called. Hasn’t let himself say your name.
Until tonight.
His phone vibrates.
An encrypted message. A photograph of a financial ledger. A list of names.
And one sentence that turns his blood to ice.
OCCHIPINTI FINANCED THE CONTRACT. THE BRIDE IS THE FINAL TARGET.
Beniamino looks up sharply.
Ferrante is slipping an engagement ring onto your finger.
The same finger where Beniamino’s ring once rested.
Something in him gives way.
He crosses the ballroom without a pause, ignoring the startled murmurs as he comes.
“Take your hands off her.”
Ferrante turns, smiling pleasantly.
“Beniamino. Surely you remember that you arranged this engagement yourself?”
Beniamino’s jaw tightens.
“I remember.”
He looks at you, and for the first time in six weeks, the cold mask he’s worn begins to crumble.
“Sweetheart, I need you to come with me.”
Ferrante laughs softly.
“She’s not yours anymore, Rispoli.”
Beniamino’s eyes never leave yours.
“I know.”
His voice breaks on the next words.
“And that’s the worst mistake I’ve ever made.”
He extends his hand toward you.
“Please. I know you hate me. But I need you to trust me for five minutes. After that, you can tell me to go to hell, and I’ll deserve every word.”