**I GRABBED THE MAFIA BOSS’S ARM AT HIS SISTER’S WEDDING AND WHISPERED, “PLEASE DON'T LET THE GROOM TAKE MY DAUGHTER”—BECAUSE MY 10-YEAR-OLD GIRL WAS SIGNING “HELP ME” ACROSS THE ROOM, AND THE GROOM WAS MY HUSBAND.**

Patrick stared at the blinking red light in Isabella’s hand.

The smug, cruel smile melted off his face, replaced by a mask of sheer panic.

"You recorded me?" he whispered.

"Every word," Isabella said, her voice dripping with disgust. "Every lie you told our guests. Every threat you just made against your wife. The forgery confession. The gaslighting. It's all here."

She turned to her brother. "Take it, Luca. Send it to our lawyers. Send it to the police."

Luca took the necklace from her hand. His eyes never left Patrick. "You're a dead man walking, Patrick. The syndicate wants their money, the police will want you for fraud, and I want you out of my sight before I forget my promise to my sister to never shed blood on her wedding day."

Patrick backed away, his eyes darting frantically around the room. He looked at Marco, but the older man turned his back, disowning him in an instant. He looked at the bodyguards blocking the doors.

He was trapped.

"Julia," Patrick begged, turning his desperate eyes to me. "Julia, please. You have to understand. I was in too deep. I just wanted to provide for us—"

"Stop!" I yelled, covering Sophie’s ears, even though she couldn't hear him. I didn't want his toxic vibration anywhere near her. "Don't you dare use us as your excuse! You were going to send me to a psychiatric ward and sell my grandmother's house to save your own skin!"

I looked down at the silver rosary on the floor. I knelt and picked it up, clutching it tightly in my fist. The cool metal grounded me.

"You're nothing to me anymore," I said, staring directly into his eyes. "You don't get to claim us."

Patrick's face twisted into something ugly and feral. "I'm not going to prison. I'm not going down for this."

Suddenly, he lunged.

Not toward me. Not toward Luca.

He lunged toward the table where Isabella’s diamond-encrusted wedding purse sat. He reached inside and pulled out a small, black handgun.

Screams erupted from the remaining guests. Chairs scraped against the marble floor as people scrambled for cover.

"Nobody moves!" Patrick screamed, his hands shaking wildly as he pointed the gun toward the crowd.

My heart stopped.

Luca’s bodyguards instantly drew their weapons, but Luca threw his hand up. "Hold!" he commanded. "Don't shoot!"

Patrick was backing toward the French doors that led to the gardens. "I'm leaving. I'm walking out of here, and nobody is going to stop me."

"You won't make it to the gates," Luca said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Put it down, Patrick. You're making a mistake you can't undo."

"I have nothing left to lose!" Patrick yelled, his eyes manic.

Then, his gaze locked onto Sophie.

My blood turned to ice.

"I need leverage," he muttered, taking a step toward us.

"No!" I screamed, throwing my body in front of my daughter.

But Patrick didn't reach for her. Instead, he grabbed my arm, yanking me forward so violently I stumbled. He pressed the barrel of the gun hard against my ribs.

"Back off!" he yelled at Luca, using me as a human shield. "Tell your men to drop their guns, or I swear to God, I'll pull the trigger!"

Sophie screamed—a high, sharp sound of absolute terror. She hit her father's leg with her small fists, but he kicked her away.

"Sophie, stay back!" I cried out, terrified the gun would go off.

Luca's eyes were fixed on the gun pressed against my side. He slowly raised his hands. "Let her go, Patrick. You want to leave? Leave. But you don't take her."

"She's my wife," Patrick sneered, pulling me tighter against him. "She's coming with me to the bank. We're going to finalize that transfer."

He began dragging me toward the garden doors. My shoes slipped on the polished floor.

Then, the heavy oak doors of the ballroom suddenly burst open.

A woman stood in the doorway. She was breathing heavily, her hair disheveled, holding a thick manila envelope.