Married to the Don, My Ex Won’t Stop Begging Chapter 04

Married to the Don, My Ex Won’t Stop Begging Chapter 04

The head of house knocked on the door.

“Miss Luciano. Mr. Vincenzo. Miss Genevieve. The Don wants you in the main hall.”

I gave him a short nod.

“Carmine. Every guard posted at my residence today gets disciplined.”

“The Luciano family doesn’t keep useless security. Apparently anyone can just waltz in and torch my afternoon.”

Genevieve’s face went pale. She knew exactly who I meant.

The head of house bowed. “Understood.”

At some point, the rain had started.

My residence sat a good distance from the main hall.

A servant followed behind me with an umbrella, ready to shield me the moment I stepped outside.

Two steps in, the hand holding the umbrella changed.

“Dante, your wife is right behind you. You holding this for me doesn’t look right. I’ll do it myself.”

The umbrella tilted. Rain soaked half his suit. My hand closed around empty air when I reached for it.

His jaw tightened. His grip on the handle didn’t loosen.

“Taking care of you has been my habit for too many years. Even if we can’t be together, I grew up as your brother. I’ll always be your brother. Tina, stop pushing me away.”

I let out a cold laugh. “Is that so? Too bad, Dante. I don’t need you anymore.”

The covered walkway was only a few yards ahead.

I sped up. Let the rain hit me. Anything to get out from under that umbrella.

Behind me, Dante’s voice cracked like he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Tina, with a stubborn streak like yours, marriage is going to be hard on you.”

“The Don is already arranging your match. Do you even know that?”

I didn’t bother to respond.

I stepped into the walkway and kept going.

Suddenly, the corridor was packed with people.

Black suits. Dark red ties. Every man held a deep crimson velvet tray stacked with jewelry, luxury watches, antique paintings.

They lined both sides of the corridor. When they saw me, they bent at the waist in perfect unison.

Behind me, Genevieve gasped.

She stopped walking entirely. Her eyes stuck on the jewels like glue.

“That… that sapphire necklace is incredible.”

“Dante, all this… it’s for our wedding?”

Dante’s brows pulled together. Something was off.

He’d spoken to my father just yesterday. They’d agreed. To avoid upsetting me, his marriage to Genevieve would be handled quietly.

Just a simple family dinner. A couple drinks. Done.

And these men—they weren’t familiar.

They didn’t look like Luciano soldiers. And the gifts were far too extravagant.

My father loved Caravaggio. But there were several pieces on those trays. Signed originals. Even he didn’t own some of those.

This wasn’t the Luciano family preparing gifts.

This was someone giving them.

Giving?

Dante’s heart seized. He couldn’t let his mind finish the thought.

Genevieve kept asking, oblivious.

He watched my retreating figure and murmured, “I didn’t arrange this.”

Genevieve nodded, her face falling in disappointment.

“That makes sense. You’ve only been back a short time. These are rare and precious. Someone put serious thought and time into this.”

“Must be someone big.”

“What kind of event rolls out this much theater?”

Dante didn’t answer.

His unease spread, slow and cold.

Past the walkway, through the arch, was the main hall.

Santoro’s consigliere, Marco, was already waiting.

The moment he saw me, he thrust the gift registry into my hands with a bow.

“Don Luciano has already reviewed it.”

“Please, Miss Luciano. Look it over. If anything’s missing, anything at all, just say the word. Mr. Santoro’s orders were clear. If you like it, it’s yours. The registry’s blank. Fill it however you want.”

I didn’t care much about the gifts.

The Luciano family had plenty. We lacked nothing.

“You’re back fast. Where is he?”

Marco straightened. “Mr. Santoro was in a hurry. Took a few hits along the way.”

“He just touched down. Getting stitched up. He’ll be here soon.”

As Dante and Genevieve entered the hall and exchanged formalities with my father, the front doors swung open again.

A sports car pulled up to the entrance.

His men opened the door.

A pair of red-bottomed loafers hit the carpet.

Matteo Santoro’s face was all sharp angles and dangerous charm. “Valentina. I’m here to marry you.”