Chapter 1 - The Bruises Beneath the Lace
“Please… don’t touch me.”
Adrian Vale stopped so fast the heel of his shoe scraped the marble floor.
Three feet separated him from Elena Moretti, the woman he had married less than four hours earlier. She stood beside the bed in a forty-thousand-dollar ivory gown, one hand crushed around the dresser edge, staring at him as if those three feet were the last safe ground in Chicago.
Adrian had built his name on fear. He owned clubs, warehouses, trucking routes, and a private security company that knew more about the city than half the police department. Men who carried guns for a living lowered their voices around him.
But this fear was different.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.
Elena nodded too quickly. “I know.”
A lie.
He loosened his tie and moved his jacket toward a chair. Elena stepped back.
Adrian went still.
“My father said—” she began.
“What did Victor say?”
“Nothing.”
“Elena.”
“I’m tired.”
She turned away, and the low back of her wedding dress exposed a dark mark beneath the lace near her shoulder blade. Then another. Purple fading to yellow.
Adrian’s face changed.
“Turn around.”
“No.”
It was the first honest answer she had given him.
He stepped backward instead. “I’m not ordering you. I just need to know if you’re hurt.”
“I fell.”
“How many times?”
Her eyes filled.
That was enough.
He opened the bedroom door. “Dante.”
His security chief appeared immediately.
“Lock the estate.”
Elena spun around. “No!”
“Everyone stays inside,” Adrian said.
“My family is still here.”
Victor Moretti was supposed to have left twenty minutes ago.
Adrian looked at Dante. “Where is he?”
“East drawing room. His wife, attorney, two drivers.”
“Bring him upstairs.”
Elena caught Adrian’s sleeve. The instant she realized she had touched him, she released it.
“Please,” she whispered. “You don’t understand what he’ll do.”
Adrian lowered his voice. “For the first time tonight, you’re going to hear something from a man and know he means it. Nobody in this house touches you without your permission. Not your father. Not your family. Not even me.”
Footsteps struck the hall.
Victor entered in his tuxedo, furious until he saw Elena’s shoulder.
For one fraction of a second, fear flashed across his face.
Adrian caught it.
He shut the door and turned the lock.
Victor frowned. “What the hell are you doing?”
Adrian looked at Elena, then at the bruises, then back at the man who had delivered his daughter as payment for a debt.
“I’m trying to decide whether my wedding ended tonight,” he said quietly, stepping toward Victor, “or whether your funeral just began.”
Victor did not look at Adrian.
May you like
He looked at Elena.
And whispered, “Tell him you fell.”
