Page 14 of Punishing His Runaway Bride
Chapter Three
Ezio
The Visconti family law firm sat on the thirty-second floor in Midtown Manhattan, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking all of Central Park.
I stood at the window, whiskey in hand, watching the distant green and lake glitter harsh in the sunlight.
Two things sat on the desk—a photograph and a thick file.
The photo was clear. Me, lying in bed, a blonde woman beside me, sprawled across my chest, face buried in my neck, only half her profile visible and a mess of golden hair showing. The sheets were tangled, neither of us wearing a thing. Anyone who saw this photo could guess what we'd just done.
"Mr. Visconti." Carlo's voice came from behind, soft, carefully probing. "The photo's been verified. Someone sent it to the Colonna family deliberately. Last night, it went straight to Miss Colonna's private email and her father's phone—old Colonna himself."
I didn't turn around, just lifted the glass to my lips and took a sip. The whiskey burned, scorching my throat, but that pain cleared my head.
"Clever angle." Carlo continued, his voice dropping lower. "Thephotographer must've been in the room, or... planted a hidden camera."
I turned and picked up the file.
Olivia Adrian.
Twenty-two, born in Brooklyn. Mother died in a car accident when she was fifteen. Father's a gambler who ran off two years ago after racking up loan shark debts, left behind a pile of shit.
One sister, Sophie, seventeen, still in high school.
Graduated a year early from American Ballet Academy, excellent grades, but couldn't land a spot in any real ballet company after. Been scraping by on odd jobs ever since.
Father's debts ran about a hundred fifty grand. Creditor was a Brooklyn lowlife named Vito Castro, specialized in loan sharking, dirty methods.
Two months ago, she started working at Moulin Rouge as a stripper. Quit after one night.
The day after that night.
I flipped to the last page, looked at her photo—must've been scanned from some ID. White background, simple white shirt, hair in a ponytail, expression calm.
Nothing like that night onstage.
That night, she wore black lace, blonde hair loose, eyes carrying something indecipherable—defiant, wild. But in this photo, she looked... clean. Like an ordinary college girl.
I closed the file.
Carlo went on. "This morning, the family got word from the Colonnas. Old Colonna says the Viscontis are treacherous and demands we cancel your engagement to Miss Colonna. The alliance is off. The Visconti family owes him an explanation." He paused. "All of New York knows now. Inside the family... those who oppose you are already making noise."
I said nothing.
Matteo took me there. "Bachelor party," he'd said. "Last taste of freedom before the wedding. Go see the world." I hadn't refused—that was my first mistake. Matteo had been at my side for sevenyears. I thought I knew him. Thought loyalty could be measured in time.
Clearly not.
The photo was professional. Angle, lighting, timing—not some random snapshot. Someone waited, positioned themselves, calculated the moment before pressing the shutter. To pull that off in that environment meant either advance scouting or inside help at the club. And that woman's timing was too perfect to be a coincidence.
I ran through it all in my head and reached a conclusion. This wasn't improvised. Someone had planned this for a long time.
Whether Matteo was a pawn or the player, too early to tell.
That woman was another matter.
"Dig into her." My voice came out flat. "The blonde in 208 that night. I want everything on her."
