Revenge at the Altar

Robin walked out of the bathroom, his hair still damp. "What are you looking at?"

"The proposals from the wedding planner." I quickly switched screens. "He said we need to finalize the guest list."

He nodded, satisfied, and sat down beside me. "Of course. This is our big day. Every detail has to be perfect."

"Yes," I smiled. "Every single detail."

That afternoon, I left the apartment under the pretense of choosing a wedding dress. In reality, I drove straight to the secure room in the basement of the family estate.

Marco's Consigliere, Antonio, was already waiting for me. A thick folder lay on the table.

"Miss Moretti, the list is ready," Antonio said, pushing the file toward me. "Representatives from all the major families will be in attendance. Including the Falcones."

I opened the folder. Next to each name was a detailed profile—their relationship with Moretti family, their level of contact with Robin, and where they would likely stand during the sit-down.

"And security?"

"Arranged. Don Falcone's men will control the perimeter. Our men will handle the interior," Antonio said, pausing for a moment. "Once it begins, no one leaves."

"Good." I closed the folder. "How long?"

Four days.

Four days. Robin had seven more days to live his lie.

When I returned to the apartment, Robin was waiting for me in the living room.

Just like he used to, every night he knew I was coming home.

He was standing by the wall, frowning.

"Isabella, where's our photo?" he asked, pointing to the empty wall. The large portrait of us from our vacation in Italy was gone, leaving only a bare nail.

"I sent it out to be restored," I said lightly. "I want it to look brand new for the wedding."

In truth, I had torn that photo to shreds last night, along with every other picture of us, and thrown them into the incinerator.

Robin let out a breath of relief and wrapped his arms around me from behind. "You think of everything."

He kissed my ear, then pulled a small box from his pocket. "I bought you a little something."

Inside was a rhinestone-studded necklace, gaudy in its design. It was clearly something Ava would like.

"It's beautiful," I said, running a finger over the cheap stones. "Will you put it on for me?"

Robin eagerly took the necklace and moved behind me. As his fingers brushed against the back of my neck, I fought the urge to flinch.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror—a liar's gift wrapped around my throat, a false smile plastered on my face.

Robin then noticed the calendar on my desk, where I'd been marking off the days in red ink. Seven days, six, five…four.

"Are you counting down?" he asked, reaching to flip through it.

"Mhm, for our wedding," I nodded. "Big days deserve a proper countdown."

He had no idea I wasn't marking a wedding, but his doomsday.

Soon, Robin. It will all be over soon.

"Isabella, sometimes I feel like the luckiest man alive," Robin said, taking my hand. "To be able to marry you, to become part of the Moretti family."

"Is that so?" I stroked the back of his hand. "Do you think... my papa would be happy for us?"

Robin's hand tensed for a split second before he recovered.

"Of course. All old Don Moretti ever wanted was your happiness," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "He would know I'd take good care of you."

The hypocritical bastard.

Just then, Robin's phone rang.

"Sorry, some trouble at the casino," he said, standing up. "I have to go take a look."

More "trouble at the casino." I had clearly heard Ava's flirtatious voice on the other end of the line.

As he headed for the door, I pointed to a heavy wooden crate in the corner. "Could you help me move this to the basement? It's some of my papa's old things. I want to get rid of them."

"Of course, darling," he said, walking over without a second thought. He lifted the crate with ease. "Leave the heavy lifting to me. Out with the old, in with the new."

He walked toward the service elevator that led to the basement incinerator, never once asking what was inside.

If he had opened it, he would have found all the evidence needed to seal his fate.

But the fool did nothing.

The elevator doors slid shut, hiding his smug face from view.

He would never know he had just personally carried his own coffin to the furnace.