My Billionaire Ex Regrets Throwing Me to the Mafia Don novel · Chapter 22 of 32

Chapter 22: Bait

Brent went white.

"The bride," he said. "That's you. They mean you."

"Yes."

"At your wedding. In a church." He looked at Dario. "You're going to cancel it. Right? You're going to cancel it."

"That's not your business, Mr. Stratton," Dario said.

"The hell it isn't. I brought you that."

"And I thank you for it." Dario went to the door and opened it. "My man will walk you through the cameras."

Brent looked at me.

I held the iPad against my chest.

"Thank you," I said. "I mean it."

He nodded.

He went out without another word, and the flashes lit up the hall behind him.

When the door shut, Dario turned around.

"We move the wedding," he said. "We do it in Palermo in private, in my family's chapel, and we tell nobody the date."

"No."

"Giulia."

"We don't hide it," I said. "We move it up. And we tell everyone."

He stared at me.

"Say that again."

"He wants the bride first. So we give him a bride. Tuesday morning. Here."

"The church across the street, with every reporter in New York on the steps."

"You want to stand in a church with a target on your back."

"I want him to come out of whatever room he's in before Tuesday at noon."

"He won't do it for you. He won't do it for my father. He'll do it for me."

"No."

It was the first time he'd ever said the word to me.

It came out hard and flat.

"You told me I keep my work," I said. "This is my work."

"I find where the thing breaks, and I make it break where I can see it."

"This isn't code."

"Neither was Lodestar, the first time I told Brent it would work."

"Brent isn't standing in front of you." His voice went up for the first time since I'd known him. "I am."

"I watched a windshield come apart in front of your face four nights ago."

"I will not stand at an altar and wait for it again."

"Then don't stand there. Stand where you can see the door."

"You are not bait."

"I'm the only bait he wants!"

We stood on opposite sides of his front room.

I was breathing hard.

So was he.

The reporters outside were still shouting at the street, muffled through the glass.

"You asked for me by name," I said. "Not a patent. Not a quiet wife in a villa. Me. This is what I am."

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