CHAPTER 8
1207 Words
—Dominic—
The ride to the mansion was long—too long. I leaned back against the leather seat as the city blurred past my window.
It had been months. Maybe longer.
I adjusted my cufflinks and met Marco's gaze through the rear mirror. He didn't say a word. Not immediately.
He waited until we started up the hill leading to the mansion before he spoke.
“You’ve already decided. Haven’t you?”
I stared out the window. “I just have a feeling she's in trouble.”
“She married him, sir. Not under a gun. What if this is what she chose?”
“I’ve seen how he operates. He doesn’t hold a weapon to their heads—he holds the world hostage.”
The iron gates of the Morvanti mansion swung open before us—already expecting me. I glanced at my father’s men stationed around the estate. Most of them already on my payroll.
My men didn't wait for the convoy to come to a complete stop. They jumped out of the cars and scanned the perimeter.
Marco was at my side instantly, his hand hovering near his holster as he opened my door. I stepped out, removed my glasses, and took in the mansion.
“If this turns into a problem with your father,” Marco whispered, voice low. “How far are we taking it?”
“There will be no bloodbath.” I straightened my jacket. “At least, not today.”
My gaze stayed on the building. Somewhere behind those doors, she was inside—unaware that our paths were about to cross again.
Marco turned to his comm while I caught sight of staff moving through the garden—tables, chairs, and tall arrangements of white roses being loaded into a waiting van.
I followed them and as expected—it led to the venue.
Rows of chairs were being folded away. String lights still hung on the trees.
Petals littered across the grass and led to a floral arch.
I slowed to a stop.
The arch.
That was where it had happened.
One side had already been stripped of its drapery— the fabric pooled carelessly on the ground while workers loosened the remaining fixtures.
Where she’d stood believing in forever.
And he’d made a spectacle of it.
She had trusted him with her heart and he’d broken it the very first night.
I didn’t move at first.
Just stared at the space until Marco appeared again by my side.
“The reception was in the ballroom, sir.”
I kept moving.
I strode into the Morvanti ballroom, and something gripped my chest as I took in the dance floor and the stage where the couple had stood.
My hand tightened around my glasses.
Marco appeared beside me.
“What level of presence do you want inside the mansion?”
I didn’t look at him. My eyes fixated on the couple’s seat in the corner. She must’ve sat next to him, close enough for his hand to rest over hers... not knowing it was a lie.
“Low profile,” I said. “I want eyes everywhere, not attention.”
Marco suddenly turned to the push-to-talk mic on his lapel. “Yes? Noted.” He lowered his hand.
“Your father is on his way.”
Footsteps approached. I slipped my glasses into my breast pocket and buried my hands in my pockets.
My father walked in.
He wasn’t alone; his mistress trailed behind him in a sleeveless red dress—out of place, but there anyway.
The air in the room didn’t just chill... it died.
The servants cleaning the place stopped and hurried out. Marco stepped back.
My gaze stayed on my father as he stopped three feet.
“Dominic. You’re back!”
I took a step forward. Then another. My hands still buried inside my pockets.
“Good morning, Father.”
“When did you come back?”
“Last night.”
His gaze flicked around the hall. “You couldn't make it.”
“Perhaps if you'd sent the invitation earlier, I would've made it.”
“I assumed the timing wouldn’t matter,” he said, voice calm. “You’ve never been one to honor invitations.”
My jaw tightened. He was weaponizing the past. I forced a smile and glanced at his mistress.
“Congratulations, Elisa. On officially becoming Mrs. Morvanti,” I said coolly.
Both exchanged shocked glances. Elisa scratched her neck.
“Come on, son. Don't tell me you didn't go through the invitation.”
“You must’ve seen the name. Madeline. Not Elisa.”
“Madeline,” I repeated, the name tasting like a promise. “I did—but I thought it was a mistake seeing you two together.”
“I was under the impression it was your honeymoon with Elisa.”
Androa stilled.
Elisa's face turned beetroot red as she eyed me.
She hissed and left the room.
Her footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Androa studied me for a beat.
“You did that on purpose. Didn't you? You've never liked her.”
“I'm trying to understand why your mistress is with you on your honeymoon. Is there something you aren't telling me?”
Androa pulled out a cigar and lit it.
Silence stretched.
“This isn’t how you frame it.” He puffed a smoke. “Women are for our pleasure. We the men aren’t wired to be tied to just one partner. Variety is the spice of life.”
Memories surfaced. Ugly ones that made my hands clench inside my pockets.
“Convenient philosophy,” I exhaled. “For men who can’t stay faithful.”
He held my gaze.
He took another slow drag of his cigar. Then tossed it to the floor and crushed it under his shoe as if the conversation had already ended.
“Come. I’ll introduce you to my wife.”
Marco shifted slightly behind me.
I followed.
The corridor was quiet—classic paintings lined the walls. Most of them bought at auctions.
We passed double doors guarded by staff who lowered their heads, and finally stepped into the living room.
It was just as I remembered. Vast. Soaring ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Polished marble floors.
I sank in one of the velvet couches, already reaching for the whiskey on the side table.
“I’ll be right back,” Androa said.
He left the room and I glanced at Marco standing near a floor to ceiling window.
He gave a small nod. No words needed.
I brought the glass to my lips.
The whiskey burned down my throat. It did nothing to ease the tension coiled beneath my ribs. I needed to see her.
To know if Androa’s bride was the same woman I’d been with the night before.
Just as I lowered the glass, a familiar scent hit me. Soft jasmine with a trace of vanilla.
The door opened.
Androa walked in first and another figure followed.
Madeline.
It was her.
The one who had slipped out of my suite the night before.
My Little Bird.
“Meet my son, Dominic Morvanti.”
She scanned the room until her eyes met mine.
Her lips parted.
She remembered.
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