The air inside the Hawthorne Grand suite tasted like cold peppermint and leather. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Lake Michigan was a slab of gray slate, reflecting a winter sky that looked bruised and low.

"The lawyers worked for Eleanor," Dante interrupted. "And the firm that executed the probate was Vane, Sterling & Cross—a firm where your sister Lydia has been drawing a retainer as a 'consultant' since her nineteenth birthday."

I backed away until my calves hit the edge of the velvet sofa. The room felt like it was tilting, the walls closing in like a box. Eight years of my life. Eight years of working until my eyes burned, skipping vacations, saving every dollar from my small event-planning business to buy a house, to build a future, while my mother sat in her sunroom sipping gin and complaining about her arthritis.

"You're lying," I whispered, though deep in my gut, a cold, dark truth was already taking root. "You're a mobster, Mr. Moretti. You want something from me. You're using this to manipulate me."

Dante didn't look angry. He simply reached out, his long, tattooed fingers picking up the white envelope he’d placed on the table earlier. He flipped it open and pulled out a single sheet of heavy parchment—a certified copy of a land deed filed in Cook County seven days prior.

"This is the title to the venue you booked for your wedding," Dante said. "The Grand Promenade on Michigan Avenue. You paid a fifty-thousand-dollar deposit six months ago. Do you know who bought the building last Tuesday?"

I couldn't speak. I could only stare at his lips.

"A holding company called Nero Holdings," Dante said. "Which is ninety percent owned by my youngest brother, Julian. The other ten percent? Registered to Eleanor Vane."

He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing me completely.

"Your mother isn't just letting Arthur and Lydia take your money, Nora. She’s selling your wedding venue out from under you so that when you walk down that aisle, you won't even own the floor beneath your feet. She plans to declare the venue bankrupt forty-eight hours before the ceremony, forfeit your deposit, and collect the insurance payout through Julian's shell company."

"Julian?" I caught the name. "Your brother?"

Dante’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath his tan skin. "My brother thinks he’s smarter than me. He thinks he can use a suburban family drama to move money past my lieutenants. He was wrong."

"So this isn't about me," I said, a bitter laugh escaping my chest. "You don't care about my cheating fiancé or my toxic sister. You're using me to catch your brother."

"I don't care about your fiancé," Dante agreed smoothly, his dark eyes fixing onto mine with terrifying intensity. "And I certainly don't care about your sister. But I care very much about disrespect. Julian crossed a line by dealing with your mother in my territory. And you..." He paused, his gaze dropping to my mouth before rising back to my eyes. "...you came into my bar with a broken heart and a bottle of cheap gin, asking to destroy a wedding. I am simply giving you the explosives."

"What do you want me to do?" I asked, my voice suddenly steady, cold, and stripped of all fear.

Dante smiled. It was a terrifying sight—sharp, slow, and entirely devoid of warmth.

"Go to the dress fitting tomorrow," he said. "Let Lydia adjust your veil. Let Arthur kiss your cheek and smell like your sister's perfume. And when your mother calls to ask if you've decided on the flowers... tell her you want white lilies."