“Come With Me to My Ex’s Wedding,” She Asked the Mysterious Mafia Boss—He Said Yes… Then Her Ex Saw Who She Brought

The break wasn't clean.

As Julian and Harper walked down the gravel drive toward the Aston Martin, the sound of raised voices from the reception tent escalated into a roar of confusion. Security guards were running across the lawn, their radios squawking with frantic static.

“Arthur’s private security,” Julian muttered, his hand firmly around Harper’s wrist as he accelerated their pace. “They aren't on the official payroll. Mercenaries from a private maritime contractor in Virginia.”

“Are they going to shoot at us?” Harper asked, her heels crunching into the gravel.

“Not if they want to get paid. Tierney’s accounts are frozen. But they might try to keep us here until they can retrieve that indemnity release.”

Two men in dark windbreakers emerged from behind the gatehouse, blocking the exit to Ocean Drive.

“Mr. Cross,” one said, his hand resting under his jacket. “Mr. Tierney would like you to wait in the library.”

Julian didn't break his stride. “I decline.”

“That wasn't a request, sir.”

Julian moved with horrifying speed.

He closed the distance before the man could draw his weapon, his palm striking the guard’s chin with a sickening *crack*. The guard’s head snapped back, his feet leaving the gravel as he collapsed instantly. The second man drew his pistol, but Harper—running on pure adrenaline and five years of suppressed fury—swung her heavy leather clutch, weighted with her laptop and charger, directly into the side of the man’s throat.

The guard gagged, stumbling sideways.

Julian finished it with a short, brutal hook to the ribs that dropped the second man into the rhododendrons.

Julian looked at Harper, his eyebrows raised in genuine astonishment.

“Forensic accounting,” she panted, straightening her jacket. “Heavy equipment.”

“Remind me never to dispute an invoice with you,” Julian said, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the Aston Martin.

They piled into the car. The DB6 roared to life, the dual exhausts spitting gravel as Julian dumped the clutch and spun the car through the stone gates onto Ocean Drive just as three black SUVs came racing down the private road from the mansion.

“Hold on,” Julian said.

He threw the vintage car into the turns of the coastal road. To their left, the Atlantic crashed violently against the jagged cliffs; to their right, the mega-mansions of Newport blurred past in a smear of stone and autumn foliage.

The first SUV tried to pull alongside them on the straightaway near Brenton Point.

Julian glanced in the rearview mirror, his face completely devoid of fear. He was in his element. The machine responded to his hands like an extension of his own nervous system.

“Harper,” he said calmly.

“Yes?”

“Open the glove compartment.”

She popped the latch. Inside lay a heavy, grey metal cylinder with a brass pin.

“Smoke grenade?” she asked.

“Marine distress flare. Pull the pin, drop it out the passenger window when I say three.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am always serious about logistics, Miss Blaine. One… two… three!”

Harper leaned out, pulled the ring, and dropped the heavy cylinder onto the asphalt.

A massive wall of sulfurous, blinding crimson smoke erupted behind them, expanding instantly in the coastal gale. The lead SUV swerved violently to avoid the fiery discharge, its tires losing traction on the wet salt-spray road. It spun two complete circles before crashing through the wooden barrier into the ditch.

Julian shifted into fourth, the Aston Martin surging forward into the safety of the highway entrance toward the bridge.

Harper collapsed back into the leather seat, her chest heaving, her hair wild from the wind. She looked at Julian.

He was looking back at her, his eyes shining with a dark, electric exhilaration.

And then, Harper started to laugh.

She laughed until her sides ached, until the tears spilled down her cheeks, washing away the last five years of humiliation, smallness, and fear.

Julian reached across the console. This time, he didn't just touch her hand. He pulled her fingers up to his lips, kissing her knuckles with slow, reverent heat.

“You did well, partner,” he murmured.

“We’re even,” she said, her breath catching as his lips moved against her skin.