Her Sister Threw Her to the Marble Floor at the Wedding—Then the Mafia Boss Lifted Her Up and Called Her His Future Wife

The private elevator of the Grand Regent was silent, lined with dark mahogany and brushed brass.

As the doors closed, sealing out the chaotic noise of the lobby and the frantic shouts of hotel staff trying to manage two hundred bewildered wedding guests, the adrenaline that had kept Simone upright began to drain away.

Her knees buckled.

Julian’s arm caught her before her hip could hit the floor. Without a word, he lifted her into his arms, pulling her small frame securely against his broad chest, and carried her out into the bright, quiet space of his top-floor penthouse suite.

“Marcus,” Julian called out as he crossed the threshold.

A gray-haired man in a crisp navy suit appeared instantly from the hallway, carrying a silver medical tray with clean bandages, antiseptic, and small surgical scissors. He didn't look surprised to see his employer holding a bleeding woman in a ruined blue dress.

“Doctor is on his way up,” Marcus said concisely. “Five minutes.”

Julian carried Simone into a spacious, sunlit living room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glowing skyline of the city. He set her down gently on a deep leather sofa, crouched on the floor before her, and began carefully unwrapping the blood-soaked linen handkerchief from her right hand.

Simone winced as the air hit the cut.

“Hold still,” Julian murmured, his hands surprisingly gentle for a man whose fingers were long, thick, and scarred across the knuckles. “The glass didn't hit the main tendon, but it’s deep. You’ll need six stitches.”

Simone stared at him, her chest rising and falling fast. “Why did you say that?”

Julian didn't look up from her hand. “Say what?”

“In the ballroom,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “You told Matteo Vance... you told everyone... that I was going to be your wife.”

Julian stopped his movements for a second. He lifted his head, his hazel eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

“I don't make statements in public that I don't intend to execute,” he said calmly.

“We don't even know each other!” Simone protested, her voice rising slightly. “You’re... you’re Julian Marzano! You own half the shipping docks in the state! People write articles about your family’s history! I’m an archivist!”

“You’re Walter Bellamy’s daughter,” Julian corrected smoothly, picking up a bottle of sterile saline and pouring a slow stream over her hand to clear the dried blood. Simone gasped, her fingers tightening around his shoulder, but he held her wrist steady. “And you are the only person in this city who spent three months trying to stop your sister from stealing your father’s medical trust.”

Simone froze. “You knew about that?”

“I run a hotel, Simone,” Julian said, setting the saline down and taking a clean piece of gauze from Marcus’s tray. “I also run a private security network. When your brother-in-law started paying his wedding catering invoices using wire transfers from an offshore account registered to 'Bellamy Mobility Services,' my compliance team flagged it within forty-eight hours.”

“Why didn't you stop them?”

“Because it wasn't my money,” Julian said bluntly. “And because until tonight, I didn't know if you were part of the scheme or the victim.”

He leaned closer, his dark scent—cedar, rain, and faint tobacco—filling her senses.

“Tonight,” Julian continued softly, “I watched your sister pull your chair out from under you while your father tried to scream with a broken tongue. I watched your brother-in-law try to frame you for emotional instability to cover his own larceny. And I decided that I had watched enough.”

Simone stared at him, her head spinning. “So you offered to marry me? Out of... pity?”

Julian’s eyes narrowed slightly, a cold, sharp spark igniting in their depths.

“I don't pity anyone, Simone,” he said, his voice dropping into a deep, gravelly register. “Least of all a woman who managed to gather four hundred pages of bank records on a state senator’s son without getting caught. I don't want a helpless bride. I want a partner who knows how to fight quietly.”

Before Simone could process those words, the penthouse private elevator chimed.

A middle-aged woman carrying a leather doctor’s bag walked briskly into the room, snapping on a pair of latex gloves.

“Mr. Marzano,” the doctor said curtly. “Step back. Let me look at the hand.”