Page 49 of Revenge

I reread the pull quote then start again at the beginning.

Dahlia Beretta (King), daughter of Benedict and Barbara King, gave an exclusive interview to the Times this week to explain her last-minute change in groom at her wedding. Last week, the heiress was expected to marry New York City Mayor Jake Reese in a very large and public wedding spectacle in Cape Cod, yet guests were stunned when the mayor did not appear at the altar.

Rather, Antonio Beretta of New Jersey, a man with a criminal record and ties to the mafia stood at the altar and claimed the bride. Beretta also became the sole shareholder of the entire King Yacht enterprise that day.

Speculation over the past two weeks has been that the bride and her father may have been coerced, but the truth is actually even more spectacular of a story.

According to Mrs. Beretta, she and Antonio have been in love since she met him as a teenager. Her father did not approve and alleged the young man stole from him while working as a caterer at Mrs. Beretta’s debutante ball.

Beretta was later sentenced to three years in prison for the crime, which Mrs. Beretta maintains he did not commit and was fabricated by her father to keep the two apart.

The wedding swap was an elaborate plan worked up by the couple to be able to fully celebrate their partnership and matrimony with all of New York’s society as witnesses. Mrs. Beretta said it was important to her that society see and recognize the union, which would have been snubbed had it been previously announced.

I stop reading and scrub a hand across my face.

What does this mean? What is Dahlia up to?

It’s a trap of some sort.

Except my traitorous heart has grown warm and full.

What if it’s not a trap? What if this is Dahlia’s attempt to save me? Perhaps from her father, perhaps from the law.

I’m moving before the thought has fully formed in my mind.

I have to find her. To see her.

Dahlia cares about me.

Maybe, she even loves me, as the article claims.

And if that’s true, then every second I’m not with her is wasted.

I jog to the door and get in my new 1964 convertible Corvette.

Dahlia Beretta belongs to me, and I’m going to go and get her. I park on the street beneath her parents’ luxury skyrise apartment on Central Park.

“Antonio Beretta here to see my wife, Dahlia.”

The doorman is obviously prepared for me. His eyes dart around nervously, but he holds his ground.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Beretta, but I’ve been instructed to ask you to leave.”

I shake my head. “I’m not leaving without my wife.”

The guy swallows. He’s scared as shit of me. Sweat trickles down his brow. “Should I call the police, sir?”

“Call Dahlia. Tell her I’m here.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I have my instructions.”

“Now.”

The guy jumps but shakes his head. “I-I’m calling the cops.”

Fanculo.

I’m tempted to use intimidation, but I check my aggression. I feel quite certain Dahlia wouldn’t want me to rough up her parent’s doorman.