Chapter 3 - The Cold Interrogation and the Wedding Invitation Trap
The massive mahogany doors of the Duca estate’s private conservatory clicked shut, sealing out the damp morning chill of the Chicago autumn. Through the massive glass panes, the gray light of dawn was beginning to bleed over the manicured lawns, glinting off the polished barrels of the security guards stationed along the perimeter fence.
Elena Vance sat gracefully in the center of a velvet-upholstered chaise lounge. She wore an immaculate cream-colored cashmere sweater set, her blonde hair styled in a flawless, voluminous blowout, her diamond-encrusted engagement ring catching the dim morning light. She looked entirely out of place amidst the tension hanging thick in the air.
Standing behind her was her mother, Eleanor Vance—a formidable matriarch of Chicago high society who wore an enormous, impeccably coiffed silver-blonde wig that sat like a frosted helmet upon her head, her face twisted into an expression of aristocratic outrage.
“This is an absolute outrage, Gabriel!” Eleanor barked, stepping forward and slamming her heavy leather handbag onto a glass coffee table. “Dragging my daughter out of her bed at four in the morning like a common criminal because of some absurd security paranoia? We have three hundred guests arriving for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night, and you have armed thugs patrolling our halls as if we’re operating a drug den!”
Gabriel did not sit. He stood beside the stone fireplace, his hands resting casually in his trouser pockets, his dark gaze fixed entirely on Elena.
Elena blinked wide, theatrical tears into her eyes, her lower lip trembling with masterclass precision. “Gabriel, please... tell me you don’t believe whatever nonsense Matteo is whispering in your ear. We’re getting married in forty-eight hours. Why would I ever spy on you?”
Olivia stood quietly in the shadowed corner near the double doors, holding a clipboard containing the estate’s night logs. She watched Elena closely, noting how the younger woman’s fingers remained tightly clasped around her handbag—not out of fear, but out of defensive tension.
Gabriel walked slowly toward the chaise lounge. The heavy thud of his boots on the marble floor made both women flinch.
He stopped two feet away, looking down at Elena with eyes devoid of any human warmth.
“Guest Room 7,” Gabriel said softly.
Elena’s tears paused for a microsecond. “What?”
“The east wing. Guest Room 7. The air ducts. A multi-channel telemetry relay tied directly into my private office, the conference room, and the dining hall.” Gabriel leaned down slightly, resting his palms on the back of her chair. “Your design firm pulled the architectural schematics for that entire wing during the redecoration contract last autumn. You were the only person outside my inner circle who requested independent access codes for the third-floor utility shafts.”
Elena’s theatrical facade instantly fractured. The trembling lip vanished, replaced by a sudden, hard glint of corporate coldness. She straightened her posture, lifting her chin.
“If you knew I was auditing the communications, then you already know why,” Elena snapped, her voice losing its sweet melodic lilt and turning sharp. “You’ve been cutting my father’s shipping firm out of the cross-lake distribution contracts for three months! You treat me like a trophy piece while you treat your business partners like vassals. I had to protect my family’s interests somehow!”
Eleanor gasped, throwing a manicured hand over her chest. “Elena, darling, what are you saying? Shut your mouth!”
“No, Mother, let him look at me!” Elena cried, standing up and towering over Gabriel with furious entitlement. “He thinks he owns the entire city! He thinks he can humiliate my family in public by freezing us out of the syndicate expansion while expecting me to walk down the aisle smiling like a dutiful little mob bride!”
Gabriel stood tall, towering over her. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't lose his temper.
“The wedding is still on,” Gabriel said, his voice flat and absolute.
Elena blinked, stunned. A hopeful, arrogant smirk crept back onto her lips. “You... you’re still marrying me? Even after this?”
“Saturday at noon,” Gabriel continued, ignoring the question. “St. Jude Cathedral. The guest list remains unchanged. Every high-society family in Chicago, every capos, every political figure we’ve invited will be sitting in those pews. You will walk down that aisle wearing your white dress, and you will exchange your vows exactly as planned.”
Elena let out a relieved, slightly manic laugh, smoothing down her cashmere sweater. “Well... I’m glad you finally realized you can’t run this syndicate without our family’s banking connections, Gabriel. I’ll see you at the altar.”
As Elena and her sputtering mother turned to storm out of the conservatory, escorted by two silent guards, Olivia looked up at Gabriel with profound disbelief.
“Mr. Duca,” Olivia whispered as the doors clicked shut. “You’re letting her walk? After she sold your secrets to your rivals?”
May you like
Gabriel turned his head slowly, looking at Olivia with a terrifying, razor-sharp smile that reached his dark eyes for the first time all night.
“I said the wedding is still happening, Olivia,” Gabriel murmured quietly. “I never said she would make it to the altar as my wife.”
