Claimed by My Ex's Mafia Father

The ring was already off her finger before she'd even decided to take it off.

Eliora Aster stared down at it sitting in her open palm—six carats, custom-cut, the kind of ring people photographed for magazines—and felt nothing but a strange, cold clarity. Around her, three hundred guests had gone completely silent. The string quartet had stopped mid-note. Candlelight flickered over faces she'd known most of her adult life, all of them now watching her the way people watch a car accident, unable to look away.

She had spent her career building nights exactly like this one for other people. Perfect timing. Perfect flowers. Perfect endings. Tonight was supposed to be hers.

Twenty minutes ago, it had been.

"Eliora, please." Caius's voice cracked across the terrace, his shirt buttoned wrong, his face raw with a shame that hadn't cooled into anger yet. "We can fix this."

"There's nothing to fix." Her voice came out steady. That surprised her more than anything else happening right now. "You didn't break something we can repair. You showed me something that was never real."

She set the ring down on the nearest table, gently, the way she'd place a name card at one of her own events. The small sound of stone against marble carried across the entire silent terrace.

Somewhere behind her, a guest gasped. Someone else laughed—short, stunned, unable to help it.

Three hours earlier, none of this had existed. She'd been standing on this same terrace in a borrowed moment of perfection, champagne in hand, letting Camille fuss over her smile.

"That's your work smile," Camille had said. "I need your bride smile."

"I am smiling."

"Barely."

She'd laughed then, real and easy, scanning the crowd out of long habit, checking timing, checking flow, the way she checked every room she'd ever staged. That was when she'd first noticed him.

Severin Virelli hadn't arrived like other guests. He hadn't been announced, hadn't been fussed over by hosts eager to please a man of his standing. He'd simply appeared near the edge of the terrace, dark suit, unreadable expression, and every conversation near him had quieted half a beat before he passed and resumed half a beat after—as though the air itself deferred to him.

She'd caught him watching her once, briefly, while she adjusted a centerpiece that didn't need adjusting. Not the polite, assessing glance most men gave the bride-to-be. Something more careful than that. Something that made her feel, for one unsettling second, like she'd been noticed rather than simply seen.

She'd told herself it was nothing. Future father-in-law, sizing up the woman marrying his son. That was all.

She'd been wrong about a great many things that night.

It was that same instinct for noticing—the thing her whole career was built on—that had sent her chasing Aveline down a quiet hallway twenty minutes before the wedding fell apart. Her best friend had a maid-of-honor dress waiting upstairs and no reason at all to be slipping through the side doors toward the villa's private wing.

She'd followed on nothing but a bad feeling. The hallway had been quiet, thick carpet swallowing her footsteps, Aveline's perfume hanging fresh in the air. At the end of the hall, a door had stood open two inches, voices spilling through the gap.

"You can't keep stalling them," a man's voice had said. "They want confirmation before the wedding. Not after."

"I need more time."

"You don't have more time. Neither does she."

Eliora's whole body had gone cold at that word. She. They'd been talking about her, though she hadn't understood how, or why, or what confirmation anyone could possibly need before a wedding that belonged to no one but her and Caius.

She'd pushed the door open before she could stop herself. Aveline had spun around, face draining white, a stranger beside her going utterly still in a way that made Eliora's skin crawl—trained stillness, the kind that came from practice, not surprise.

She hadn't stopped there. A second door beyond them had stood open just enough to show her a chair, and a jacket draped over the back of it. She'd known that jacket instantly.

Caius's.

What came after—the second door opening, the woman's laugh that wasn't Aveline's, Caius half-dressed and frozen mid-motion—had unfolded with a strange, terrible calm that still hadn't left her, even now, standing on the terrace with an empty ring finger and three hundred witnesses to her own humiliation.

"You're doing this here?" Caius's voice had turned cold, shame giving way fully to fury. "In front of everyone?"

"You did this here." She held his eyes. "I'm just honest enough not to pretend otherwise."

She turned to leave. That should have been the end of it—the clean exit, the story she'd tell herself later about the night she found her spine.

Instead, crossing the terrace, she caught sight of the same man who'd watched her earlier, still positioned at the room's edge, a glass of wine untouched in his hand. Severin Virelli hadn't moved since the music died. His face gave away nothing—no shock, no anger, none of the instinct a father should have to defend his son.

Just stillness. And something sharp behind his eyes, focused entirely on her, like he was recalculating something important now that the wedding he'd come to witness had become an entirely different kind of evening.

Their eyes met across thirty feet of silence.

She expected pity. She braced for it.

She found something else instead—an intensity she hadn't earned yet and didn't understand, as if the humiliation currently splitting her life in two mattered to him for reasons that had nothing to do with his son at all.

He didn't move toward her. He didn't say a word. But something about the way he held her gaze, steady and unhurried while everyone else in the room whispered behind their hands, made her feel—absurdly, impossibly, given the circumstances—less exposed rather than more. As though simply by watching her walk through this without flinching, he'd already decided something about her that the rest of the room hadn't caught up to yet.

She held his gaze a half-second longer than she meant to. Then she made herself look away, and walked past him and out into the night.

She made it past the villa's front doors before her legs finally gave out. She pressed a hand against the cool stone of the entrance wall, breathing hard, alone in the dark for the first time in three years. The tears she'd refused to shed in front of three hundred people finally, silently, began to fall.

That was when she heard the car.

Not one of the wedding party's hired vehicles. An engine, low and controlled, idling somewhere just beyond the tree line at the edge of the property, exactly where no car had any reason to be.

Eliora wiped her face with the back of her hand and told herself it was nothing. A driver waiting for an early-departing guest. A coincidence.

But some old, animal instinct she hadn't used since she was eight years old—since the last time her whole world had ended without warning—lifted the hair on the back of her neck, and she found herself backing away from the sound instead of toward it, her bare feet silent on the gravel, her heart hammering for reasons that had nothing to do with heartbreak at all.

She turned toward the tree line.

Two headlights, dark and unmoving, stared back at her from the shadows.

Then, as she watched, the engine's pitch changed.

It was moving toward her.