He Brought His Mistress to Their Wedding and Never Expected the Mafia Boss in the Back Row to Follow the Plus-Size Bride Out

The Maybach rolled smoothly through the rain-slicked streets of Manhattan, its engine a quiet hum beneath the steady patter of water against the tinted glass.

Nadine sat in the soft leather back seat, the ivory train of her dress draped over her lap like a forgotten blanket. Beside her, Julian Cross sat with his legs crossed, a silver tumbler of straight bourbon in his hand. He hadn't pressed her to speak, nor had he offered patronizing sympathy. He had simply handed her a warm cashmere throw from the door panel and instructed his driver to head north toward his private townhouse in Gramercy Park.

"My father will be ruined by morning," Nadine said quietly, her voice breaking the thirty-minute silence. She looked out at the neon lights of Fifth Avenue blurring against the wet glass. "Grant’s father controls the secondary debt syndicate. By nine o'clock tomorrow, they’ll call the loans."

"Edwin Fletcher's debt is thirty-two million four hundred thousand dollars," Julian said accurately, taking a slow sip of his drink. "Sixteen million is held by Wescott Capital. Twelve million is held by the European Union Bank. The remainder is split among local creditors."

Nadine turned her head to look at him. "You know his exact balance sheet?"

"I know the balance sheet of every man who owes me money," Julian replied smoothly. "And three weeks ago, I bought European Union Bank's position. I own twelve million of your father's debt, Nadine."

Nadine felt her stomach drop. "So you're my father's executioner too."

"I could be," Julian said, turning his dark eyes toward her. The passing streetlights illuminated the fine scar running along his jaw, giving his hard features an ancient, dangerous look. "Or I could be his new majority board member."

The car pulled up to the curb of a four-story limestone townhouse flanked by iron gates. The driver hurried around with a large black umbrella, opening the door for Nadine.

Julian stepped out after her, guiding her up the stone steps with a hand placed lightly at the small of her back. The touch was firm, protective, yet respectful—completely different from Grant's possessive, casual grip.

Inside, the townhouse was a sanctuary of dark walnut wood, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, deep leather armchairs, and a roaring marble fireplace. The scent of aged paper, cedar, and tobacco hung in the warm air.

Julian took her heavy dress train and helped her drape it over a chair near the fire, then signaled his housekeeper to bring hot tea and clean towels.

"Sit, Nadine," Julian said, walking over to his desk. He opened a thin leather folder, extracted a set of papers, and laid them on the coffee table beside her tea.

Nadine picked up the top sheet. It was a formal restructuring proposal for Fletcher Packaging.

"If I sign this," Julian explained, standing by the mantelpiece with his shoulder leaning against the dark wood, "my capital firm injects twenty million dollars into your father's mills tomorrow morning at eight. The Wescott note is paid off in full, stripping Grant’s father of any leverage over your family's assets."

Nadine looked up, her heart racing. "What are the conditions? My father loses control?"

"Your father remains Chairman Emeritus with a generous pension," Julian said coldly. "He built a fine company, but he is a terrible negotiator. He tried to sell his daughter to a coward to save his machinery. He doesn't deserve to hold the reins anymore."

Nadine flinched slightly, but she didn't deny it. The truth hurt, but it was still the truth.

"And what do you get out of this, Mr. Cross?" Nadine asked, setting the paper down. "You don't throw twenty million dollars into a struggling packaging firm out of charity. What is my role in this contract?"

Julian stepped closer, stopping right beside her chair. He looked down at her—at her wide, hazel eyes, the soft curve of her throat, and the raw resilience sitting beneath her exhaustion.

"First," Julian said softly, "you fire Grant Wescott's family from your life entirely. Second, you take the seat as Chief Operating Officer of Fletcher Packaging. You know the operations better than your father ever did. I've read your internal auditing reports from two years ago—the ones your father ignored."

Nadine gasped slightly. "You read my reports?"

"They were brilliant," Julian said flatly. "You identified six million dollars in supply-chain waste that your father's board was too lazy to correct."

He leaned down, placing his hands on the arms of her chair, trapping her gently within his frame. His scent—expensive vetiver, leather, and smoke—filled her senses.

"And third, Nadine," Julian whispered, his voice dark and raspy. "You walk into the Metropolitan Gala next Friday on my arm. Not as a victim. Not as a ruined bride. But as the woman who controls the largest packaging monopoly on the East Coast."

Nadine looked up into his dark eyes, feeling a strange, thrilling warmth rise from her chest to her neck.

"Why me, Julian?" she asked softly. "There are dozens of women in this city who would gladly stand on your arm."

"Dozens of women would have cried on that altar today and taken Grant's hand," Julian replied, his eyes dropping to her lips before returning to her eyes. "You threw your veil at his feet and walked out into the rain. I don't want a trophy, Nadine. I want a partner who knows how to fight."