Chapter 13
Giulietta remembered the morning.
Hair.
Makeup.
Jewelry.
The ceremonial signing rehearsal.
A biometric pad used for the wedding trust.
She had touched it once.
Luca had been present.
So had Marcello’s assistant.
So had Preston.
The system had stored a token.
Not a full legal authorization.
But enough to attempt replay.
Her technical team isolated the pending file.
Fake.
Sophisticated.
Not sufficient if challenged before midnight.
Giulietta smiled faintly.
Marcello had overestimated how much chaos he would create.
Her attorney filed an emergency fraud notice.
The port transfer froze.
For the first time all day, Marcello’s plan began losing without violence.
Then he called.
Giulietta answered.
His voice came calm.
“You're learning.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“From you?”
“From me. From your father. From every man you spent your life resenting.”
Giulietta paced slowly across the empty wedding ballroom.
“No.”
She looked at the white flowers.
“I’m learning what not to repeat.”
Marcello laughed.
“You think restraint makes you stronger?”
“No.”
Her voice softened.
“Choice does.”
Silence.
Then she asked:
“Why did you really want control?”
Marcello did not answer immediately.
When he did, his arrogance weakened.
“Because your father promised me I would lead if he had no son.”
Giulietta stopped.
There it was.
An old wound.
Her father had once expected a male heir.
Instead, Giulietta became his only child.
Marcello spent decades assuming he would inherit influence.
Then Giulietta grew.
Learned.
Earned loyalty.
Her father changed his succession plan.
Marcello never accepted it emotionally.
He told himself it was about tradition.
Stability.
Experience.
But underneath—
he believed something had been taken from him.
“You thought my birth stole your future.”
Marcello’s breathing changed.
“You make everything sound childish.”
“Most revenge is.”
His voice hardened.
“I protected this family before you could read.”
“And then you decided protection entitled you to ownership.”
Silence.
Marcello had no answer.
Then Giulietta heard a second sound on the line.
A door.
Movement.
A man's voice.
Not Marcello.
Her security chief traced it.
Marcello was leaving the Westchester club.
Warren looked toward Giulietta.
“You letting him run?”
“Yes.”
Warren frowned.
She continued.
“Because he isn't running.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“He's coming here.”
Twenty minutes later, security cameras captured Marcello’s car entering the wedding estate.
Alone.
No weapon visible.
No escort.
No attempt to flee.
He walked toward the ballroom as if he still owned part of it.
Giulietta understood why.
Marcello had one last weapon.
Not money.
Not votes.
May you like
Information.
And he intended to use it in person.
