Chapter 2 - The Roots of War
The wedding was supposed to end a thirty-year blood feud.
For three decades, the Cross and DeLuca families had traded territory, shipping lanes, political influence, money, businesses, and body counts across the Midwest. It was a generational war born of pride and greed.
Adrian’s father had died believing peace was weakness—a fatal mistake that had left him bleeding out on the floor of a downtown social club when Adrian was just twenty.
Vivian’s father, Vincent DeLuca, was cut from a different cloth. He believed peace was useful only when both sides were too exhausted, bloodied, and broke to keep fighting.
Their children had chosen a different path entirely.
Adrian and Vivian were not in love. They had never pretended to be. The marriage was a cold, calculated corporate merger wrapped in silk and lace.
The terms were simple: The DeLucas would permanently stop interfering with Cross-controlled freight and shipping businesses entering the state. In return, Adrian would open several high-profile, legitimate commercial real-estate development projects to DeLuca investors, laundering their dirty capital into pristine downtown steel and glass. Old debts would be wiped clean.
No more sons raised to inherit grudges they did not understand. No more funerals in the rain.
At least, that had been the promise.
Now, a black 9mm handgun was sitting on the marble floor of the bridal suite, wrapped securely in custom silk lining designed by a Parisian atelier.
Marcus stared down at the weapon, his face grim. “We need to cancel the wedding.”
Adrian crouched beside the fallen dress, his fingers brushing the torn fabric where the weapon had been concealed. “Obviously.”
“And detain Vivian,” Marcus added, gesturing toward the shaking bride.
Vivian’s face hardened instantly. She crossed her arms, regaining some of her haughty defiance. “You touch me, Marcus, and my father’s enforcers will tear this estate down to the foundation before midnight! I didn't put that gun there!”
Marcus ignored her entirely, looking at Adrian. “The DeLucas planted a weapon inside this house on the morning you were supposed to marry their daughter. That is an act of war, Adrian. A direct provocation.”
“No,” Adrian said quietly, standing up to his full height.
Marcus blinked in surprise. “No? You think this is an accident?”
“No,” Adrian repeated, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the empty hallway outside. “It’s not an accident. But it’s not Vincent DeLuca’s work either.”
Vivian scoffed, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. “Well, thank you for having an ounce of common sense! My father wants this alliance more than anyone. Why would he assassinate you at our own wedding?”
“He wouldn't,” Adrian said coldly, turning his gaze toward her. “Which means someone inside your family—or inside mine—is terrified of what happens when we stop killing each other.”
Marcus crossed his arms. “Lily mentioned a man with a shiny watch. That narrows it down to about fifty high-ranking guests, half of them DeLuca capos and the rest our own senior lieutenants.”
Adrian walked slowly to the window, looking out over the manicured lawns of Hawthorne Estate where hundreds of guests were beginning to murmur in confusion as rumors of the disruption filtered down from the bridal suite.
“Find out who was on the third-floor landing twenty minutes ago,” Adrian ordered. “Check the security logs for the private service elevator.”
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“And Vivian?” Marcus asked.
Adrian didn't look back. “Lock her in the east parlor. Double the guards. Nobody speaks to her, nobody calls her father, and nobody leaves this estate until I find out who signed my death warrant.”
