And at the center of it all sat the most feared man in New York — in a custom carbon-fiber wheelchair, dressed in an immaculate tuxedo, waiting for a bride who would never come.
His name was Adrian Moretti.
Once a shadow ruler of the city’s underworld, Adrian had reinvented himself as a real estate titan after a bullet severed his spine three years earlier. The violence was behind him. The empire wasn’t.
This was supposed to be redemption. A new life. A public declaration that Adrian Moretti was no longer the man whispered about in dark alleys.
But the clock kept ticking.
Thirty minutes.
Forty-five.
An hour.
Whispers began to slither through the garden like smoke.
“Such a shame…”
“Money can’t fix everything.”
“No woman wants a lifetime pushing a chair.”
Adrian heard every word. He kept his posture straight, jaw tight, hands gripping the armrests until his knuckles blanched.
Then his chief of security, Marcus Hale, approached with a pale face and a trembling phone.
Adrian read the message.
I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I’m at the airport with Damien.
Damien Cross.
The rival he believed responsible for the shooting that put him in the chair.
He can give me a whole life. I don’t want to spend mine as a nurse. And Damien says hello. He says the bullet should’ve finished the job.
A second later, laughter blasted from the phone’s speaker — Damien’s unmistakable voice.
“Happy wedding, Moretti. She says she prefers a man who can stand.”
Some guests gasped.
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