Chapter 2 - Seventy-Two Hours Before I Became His Wife“I’m not some women.”
The words hung between Dominic and me like a blade.
For one long second, nobody in the room moved.
Then Dominic released my chin.
“Good,” he said.
That was not the response I expected.
I had expected anger. A threat. Maybe one of those cold little smiles men like him probably practiced in mirrors before ordering someone buried beneath a highway.
Instead, he looked almost interested.
My father, Antonio Pradati, broke the silence.
“Deanna needs to rest.”
“I need to call my mother.”
“You can call her after dinner.”
I turned slowly toward him.
“No.”
His eyebrows lifted.
Perhaps Isabella had never said that word to him.
Perhaps nobody did.
“I will call my mother now.”
“Deanna—”
Dominic interrupted him.
“Give her a phone.”
My father’s face tightened.
“This is a family matter.”
“She becomes my family in three days.”
The room went still again.
Dominic looked at Marco.
“Get her a secure phone.”
Marco nodded.
I hated that Dominic’s command accomplished in five seconds what my request apparently could not.
I hated even more that part of me felt relieved.
Marco escorted me upstairs.
The bedroom prepared for me looked like a luxury hotel suite designed by someone who had never met a human being. Cream carpets. Gold fixtures. Silk curtains. A four-poster bed large enough for six people.
My battered suitcase sat beside a velvet chair.
Everything else had already been provided.
Dresses.
Shoes.
Cosmetics.
Jewelry.
Someone had even guessed my size.
I stared at the closet.
“They planned this before I agreed.”
Marco remained by the door.
“There was never much doubt you would come.”
“Because of my mother.”
He did not answer.
That was answer enough.
He handed me a phone.
I dialed home.
My mother answered on the fourth ring.
“Deanna?”
Her voice was weak.
I closed my eyes.
“Mãe.”
“Where are you?”
“New York.”
Silence.
Then I heard her inhale sharply.
“You went to him.”
There was something in her voice that made me straighten.
“You knew?”
“I knew your father might contact you someday.”
“Mãe, they want me to marry Isabella’s fiancé.”
The silence on the other end changed.
It became fear.
Real fear.
“Who?”
“Dominic Unaretti.”
Something crashed.
“Mãe?”
“Come home.”
Her voice suddenly sounded stronger.
“Deanna, listen to me. You come home now.”
“You know him?”
“No.”
Too fast.
“Mãe.”
“I know his family.”
“How?”
Another silence.
Then she said the strangest thing.
“Do not trust Antonio.”
“My father?”
“Especially your father.”
I glanced toward Marco.
He pretended not to listen.
My mother lowered her voice.
“And if they tell you Isabella died in an accident, they are lying.”
Cold moved through me.
“What?”
The bedroom door opened.
My father entered.
He crossed the room and took the phone from my hand before I could react.
The call ended.
I stared at him.
“What did you just do?”
“You upset her.”
“You don’t get to decide when I speak to my mother.”
“She is sick.”
“And whose fault is it she spent fifteen years without help?”
His expression hardened.
Marco quietly left.
Coward.
My father put the phone into his pocket.
“Your mother has always had a talent for making herself a victim.”
My hand moved before I thought.
The slap cracked through the room.
Antonio’s head turned.
My palm burned.
Neither of us spoke.
Then he slowly faced me again.
“You will never do that again.”
“Then never insult her again.”
His eyes became frighteningly calm.
I finally understood something about my father.
Dominic’s danger was visible.
Antonio’s was hidden beneath manners.
That made him worse.
“You have no idea what your mother did.”
“She raised me.”
“She stole you from me.”
I laughed.
“You abandoned us.”
“That is what she told you.”
The door opened again.
Dominic stood there.
His gaze moved from my father’s red cheek to my hand.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” Antonio said.
“I slapped him.”
Dominic looked at me.
I lifted my chin.
“He insulted my mother.”
To my astonishment, Dominic almost smiled.
“Then I assume he earned it.”
Antonio’s face darkened.
“Stay out of this.”
Dominic stepped into the room.
“You brought my future wife here through coercion, Antonio. That already makes it my business.”
Future wife.
The phrase still made my stomach twist.
“I want to know how Isabella died,” I said.
Both men became still.
That told me everything.
“She died in a car accident,” my father replied.
“My mother says you’re lying.”
“Your mother has not been part of this family for years.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
Dominic studied Antonio.
“What exactly did you tell her?”
“Enough.”
“No,” Dominic said quietly. “Apparently not.”
I looked between them.
“You knew Isabella’s death was suspicious.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
“I knew there were unanswered questions.”
“How convenient.”
His eyes returned to mine.
“You think I killed her?”
“I met you two hours ago and you threatened my mother’s medical care to force me into marriage. Forgive me if I haven’t placed you on my Christmas card list.”
Something almost human passed through his expression.
Then disappeared.
“Isabella’s vehicle went through a guardrail outside Westchester eleven days ago,” he said. “Police initially ruled it an accident.”
“Initially?”
“The brake line was cut.”
My heartbeat stumbled.
My father swore.
“You weren’t supposed to tell her.”
“She is marrying into this situation. She deserves to know.”
“Why?” I asked.
Neither answered.
“Why would anyone kill Isabella?”
Dominic walked toward the window.
“Because our marriage would have united two organizations that have spent twenty years avoiding war.”
“And now you’re marrying me, so whoever killed her might kill me.”
“Yes.”
The simple answer chilled me more than reassurance would have.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
Three days until the wedding.
My mother thousands of miles away.
A murdered sister I had never met.
A father I could not trust.
And a future husband who spoke about death as casually as weather.
“This is insane.”
Dominic turned.
“Yes.”
“I could die.”
“Yes.”
“You’re really terrible at comforting people.”
“I don’t comfort people.”
“That, I believe.”
For the first time, his mouth curved.
Barely.
But I saw it.
Then he reached inside his jacket and placed a folded document beside me.
“What is that?”
“Your mother’s medical transfer.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“She’ll be moved tomorrow morning to a private hospital in São Paulo. Specialists from New York are flying there tonight.”
I grabbed the papers.
Everything appeared real.
Treatment authorization.
Payment guarantee.
Specialists.
A six-month plan.
“Why?”
“Because I gave my word.”
“You threatened her.”
“I used leverage.”
“That’s a polite word for blackmail.”
“I never claimed to be polite.”
I looked at the total cost.
My throat tightened.
It was more money than I could have earned in twenty years.
“Does this stop if I refuse the wedding?”
Dominic’s expression changed.
He glanced at my father.
Then back at me.
“No.”
Antonio stepped forward.
“That was not the agreement.”
Dominic did not even look at him.
“It is now.”
I stared at Dominic.
“What?”
“Your mother receives treatment whether you marry me or not.”
My father exploded.
“You cannot undermine me in my own house.”
Dominic turned slowly.
The temperature seemed to drop.
“I can do whatever I want, Antonio.”
For the first time since arriving, I saw fear in my father’s face.
Not much.
But enough.
Dominic looked back at me.
“You have seventy-two hours. If you stand at that altar, I want you to understand one thing.”
“What?”
“You will be choosing me.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You brought me here at gunpoint without the gun.”
“That was your father.”
“You participated.”
“Yes.”
No excuse.
No denial.
That disturbed me more than a lie.
“I made a decision based on what I knew,” he continued. “Now I know more.”
“What changed?”
His eyes settled on me.
“You.”
The word landed somewhere dangerous.
I looked away.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Pretend this is romantic.”
“It isn’t.”
“Good.”
“But it may become something else.”
My pulse betrayed me.
I hated that too.
Dominic moved toward the door.
“Dinner is at eight.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You should eat.”
“Was that an order?”
“A suggestion.”
“Getting softer already?”
He looked over his shoulder.
“No, piccola. You simply haven’t seen hard yet.”
Then he left.
I spent the next hour reading Isabella’s obituary on the phone Marco eventually returned.
Beautiful Isabella Pradati.
Twenty-seven.
Charity boards.
Equestrian competitions.
A degree from Columbia.
Photographs with politicians and celebrities.
Everything about her life looked polished.
Then I found a picture taken three weeks before her death.
Isabella leaving a Manhattan restaurant.
Dominic was beside her.
They were not touching.
She looked furious.
He looked colder than stone.
Behind them stood another man.
Young.
Blond.
Watching Isabella.
The caption identified him as Luca Moretti.
I searched the name.
Almost nothing.
Then a message appeared on my phone from an unknown number.
DO NOT MARRY DOMINIC UNARETTI.
I stared at it.
A second message arrived.
ISABELLA TRIED TO CANCEL THE WEDDING.
A third followed.
THAT IS WHY SHE DIED.
My blood turned cold.
Then came a photograph.
Isabella.
Alive.
Terrified.
Standing in what looked like this very house.
And beside her was Dominic.
His hand wrapped around her wrist.
The timestamp was two days before her death.
A final message appeared.
May you like
YOU HAVE 72 HOURS.
RUN WHILE YOU STILL CAN.
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