Chapter 3 - The Expulsion of the Bride
The chaos in the courtyard when Marco Rizzi and four armed security operatives marched out of the mansion was immediate and total.
Guests who had been whispering among themselves suddenly scattered like sparrows as Marco’s men moved with terrifying, synchronized precision. They didn't shout; they simply blocked the pathways, gesturing toward the parking gates with firm, unyielding authority.
Donald Romano charged forward, his face purple with rage, waving his arms wildly.
“What is the meaning of this?! Where is Alessandro?! You can’t just clear a wedding of three hundred people like we’re being evicted from a cheap motel!” Romano bellowed, stepping directly into Marco’s path.
Marco stopped. He looked down at Romano the way an adult looks at a mildly annoying toddler.
“Donald,” Marco said, his voice flat and devoid of any professional courtesy. “You have eighteen minutes left of your twenty-minute window. I’d suggest you spend them packing your daughter’s wardrobe instead of wasting my breath.”
“I demand to see Alessandro!” Romano screamed, his voice cracking. “I am a partner in the Port Newark expansion! I have billions invested in—!”
“You have nothing,” Marco interrupted softly, leaning in close so only Romano could hear. “As of two minutes ago, our legal team audited your commercial real estate portfolio. We found three shell companies registered in your wife’s maiden name fundling kickbacks from municipal zoning boards. If you’re not in your limousine by the time my stopwatch hits zero, I’ll hand those files to the U.S. Attorney’s office myself. Now. Move.”
Romano froze. The color drained entirely from his face. He looked at Marco’s eyes—dead, cold, and utterly final—and realized that the marriage wasn't just canceled; his entire empire had just been dismantled with three sentences. He turned around without another word and sprinted toward the mansion.
Upstairs in the bridal suite, the heavy mahogany doors burst open.
Isabella Romano stood before the full-length mirror, her multi-thousand-dollar Vera Wang wedding gown rustling around her like seafoam, her veil pinned perfectly to her elaborate updo. She spun around, expecting to see Alessandro coming to apologize for whatever outdoor disturbance had delayed the ceremony.
Instead, she saw Marco Rizzi and two guards standing in her doorway, flanked by her weeping, panicked father.
“What is happening?!” Isabella shrieked, her voice pitching up into nails-on-a-chalkboard hysteria. “Where is Alessandro?! Why are there guards in my room?! Take these dresses down immediately, they’ll get wrinkled!”
Donald Romano grabbed his daughter by the arm, his fingers biting hard into her silk-clad shoulder. “Shut up, Isabella! Shut your mouth and take the damn dress off!”
“Dad! What are you doing? You’re ruining my veil!”
“We are ruined!” Romano yelled back, tears of absolute terror pooling in his eyes. “He knows. He saw the tape. He saw what you did to the maid in the library!”
Isabella’s breath hitched. Her eyes darted wildly around the room, landing on Marco’s impassive face. For a fraction of a second, panic flickered in her pupils, replaced instantly by the defensive arrogance of someone who had never faced a real consequence in her entire life.
“That... that trash lied!” Isabella screamed, stamping her foot against the hardwood floor. “She dropped the vase! She’s a clumsy peasant who shouldn't even be breathing the same air as us! Alessandro wouldn't cancel our wedding over a servant—!”
“Miss Romano,” Marco said, his voice cutting through her screeching like a butcher’s knife. “You have ten minutes. You can walk out of here with your dignity, or my men can carry you out in your underwear. The choice is yours.”
He turned and walked out into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
Ten minutes later, the heavy oak doors opened. Isabella walked out, her bridal gown stripped away, replaced by a simple beige trench coat thrown hastily over her designer slip dress, her hair tumbling down in disarray, her face smeared with ruined mascara. She was sobbing uncontrollably, not out of heartbreak, but out of pure, unadulterated narcissistic rage.
Marco didn't look at her as she rushed past. He watched her father drag her down the grand staircase toward the service exit where a single black sedan waited with its engine idling.
The courtyard was empty now. The white roses fluttered in the breeze, petals beginning to drop onto the grass like winter snow.
Marco pulled out his encrypted phone and dialed Alessandro’s private extension.
May you like
“Boss. They’re gone.”
“Good,” Alessandro’s voice came back instantly. “Bring Sophia Carter and her daughter to the main study. Immediately.”
