Chapter 2 - DAMIAN FINALLY ADMITTED THE WEDDING WAS NEVER ABOUT LOVE
“Why did you agree to marry someone you didn’t love?”
For the first time since Damian Moretti walked into my office, he looked like a man who had never considered that anybody might expect an honest answer.
He stood beside my battered filing cabinet in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than three months of my office rent.
No guards.
No lawyers.
No obvious weapons.
Just Chicago’s most feared mafia boss looking strangely uncomfortable beneath a framed photograph of a bride laughing because the wind had blown her veil into a fountain.
Emily remained behind her desk pretending not to listen.
She was failing spectacularly.
Damian finally said:
“Because people stop dying when powerful families agree on things.”
My amusement disappeared.
“What does that mean?”
He looked toward the window.
“The bride’s name is Isabella Bellini.”
“I know.”
“Her father is Angelo Bellini.”
That name I knew too.
Not personally.
Chicago knew the Bellini name the same way it knew Moretti.
Restaurants.
Construction.
Shipping.
Political donations.
Rumors that never quite reached court.
“You two were getting married to stop a war?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then explain exactly.”
Damian’s jaw tightened.
For years, the Moretti and Bellini organizations had competed over waterfront contracts, trucking routes, warehouse access, and businesses neither family listed in glossy corporate reports.
Most disputes stayed financial.
Some did not.
Eight years earlier, Damian’s father died.
Damian took control at thirty.
Angelo Bellini expected weakness.
Instead, Damian closed several violent operations, consolidated warehouses, and pushed more Moretti businesses into legitimate logistics.
That threatened older men who profited from disorder.
The families fought anyway.
Contracts disappeared.
Trucks burned.
A Moretti foreman was beaten nearly to death.
A Bellini warehouse manager vanished for three days and returned with broken ribs.
Nobody proved who did what.
Everyone blamed everyone.
Damian said:
“Three years ago, Angelo proposed the marriage.”
“Why you?”
“Because Isabella inherited a voting interest in Bellini Maritime from her mother.”
“And marrying you fixes that?”
“It creates a joint commercial alliance.”
“Combines contracts.”
“Ends certain disputes.”
“And makes attacking one family economically expensive for the other.”
I stared.
“So yes.”
“A peace treaty.”
“With flowers.”
Damian’s mouth almost moved.
Not quite a smile.
“I didn’t choose the flowers.”
“I know.”
“I did.”
That was probably why I felt personally offended by the whole thing.
Three months of my life.
Seventy-eight vendors.
Imported linen.
Custom glassware.
A seventy-thousand-dollar floral installation.
All so two criminal dynasties could pretend a hostage negotiation was a wedding.
“Did Isabella want it at any point?”
Damian became quiet.
That answer was enough.
“Did you ask her?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“That she understood.”
I folded my arms.
“That is not the same as yes.”
“I know that now.”
“Because she cried in front of two hundred people?”
“Yes.”
The ballroom came back to me.
Isabella Bellini standing in a silk gown while her father told her to stop shaking.
Damian beside her like a statue.
The officiant waiting.
Then I had taken Isabella into a side room because she could barely breathe.
I asked one question:
If nobody could punish you, would you marry him today?
She said no so quickly it sounded like pain.
So I canceled the wedding.
I had assumed Damian was the threat.
Now I was beginning to understand something more complicated.
“You didn’t want it either.”
“No.”
“Then why didn’t you cancel it?”
His answer came quietly.
“Because I thought wanting had nothing to do with it.”
That sentence bothered me more than if he had bragged.
I sat on the edge of my desk.
“What did you think marriage was?”
“A contract.”
“For normal people?”
“No.”
“For me.”
Emily made a tiny sound behind us.
Probably horror.
Damian continued.
“My father married for alliance.”
“My grandfather did too.”
“Women in those marriages knew what was expected.”
“So did the men.”
“Love happened elsewhere if it happened at all.”
I stared at him.
“That sounds miserable.”
“It was normal.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“It was familiar.”
Damian looked at me.
The distinction landed.
Then I asked:
“What did Isabella’s father do when you agreed to cancel?”
“I didn’t agree.”
“You smiled.”
“You fired me before I had the chance to argue.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Damian almost smiled again.
“I decided not to stop you.”
“Why?”
He looked down at the torn contract he had apparently carried into my office like a souvenir.
“Because I saw Isabella breathe.”
Silence.
“When you said the ceremony was over, she stopped shaking.”
His voice lowered.
“And I realized I felt relieved too.”
That was the first moment I stopped seeing him as the monster everyone warned me about.
Not because he became safe.
I did not know him well enough for that.
But monsters rarely describe relief when someone takes away their power to make a terrible choice.
Then Damian said:
“Angelo is furious.”
There it was.
Reality.
“At me?”
“Yes.”
“Great.”
“He thinks you humiliated his daughter publicly.”
“I prevented him from humiliating her permanently.”
“He will not appreciate the distinction.”
“Is he going to sue me?”
“No.”
“Threaten me?”
Damian paused.
“I told him not to.”
My spine stiffened.
“You told him?”
“Yes.”
“As Chicago’s terrifying mafia boss?”
His face changed slightly.
“Something like that.”
I stood.
“No.”
“No what?”
“You don’t get to solve this by frightening another man on my behalf.”
“Olivia—”
“I mean it.”
He stared.
“If Bellini threatens my company legally, I’ll get a lawyer.”
“If he threatens me physically, I’ll call police.”
“If he damages my business, I’ll document it.”
“You do not get to turn me into a territory dispute.”
Damian looked almost offended.
“You canceled my wedding.”
“Yes.”
“In front of two hundred people.”
“Yes.”
“You tore a seven-figure event contract in half.”
“Yes.”
“And now you’re lecturing me about boundaries?”
“Correct.”
A full smile appeared then.
It changed his entire face.
Emily dropped her pen.
I ignored her.
Damian said:
“Fine.”
“That was suspiciously easy.”
“I’m learning.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Not yet.”
He moved toward the visitor chair.
“Which brings me back to why I came.”
I stared.
“The education.”
“Yes.”
“You genuinely want someone to teach you how normal people fall in love.”
“Yes.”
“That is not a service I provide.”
“You plan weddings.”
“I plan ceremonies for people already in relationships.”
“You know what healthy couples look like.”
“Sometimes.”
“And unhealthy ones.”
“Frequently.”
“I want to understand the difference before I make another decision because my family says obligation is the same thing as love.”
That was irritatingly reasonable.
Still:
“No.”
Damian became quiet.
I expected negotiation.
More money.
Pressure.
Instead he asked:
“Why?”
Because apparently terrifying men could learn at least one normal question.
“Because you’re a client.”
“Former client.”
“You’re powerful.”
“True.”
“You can influence my vendors, venues, reputation, bank, insurance, and probably the weather if enough aldermen owe you favors.”
He did not deny it.
“That means any personal relationship between us would begin with a power imbalance large enough to require its own zip code.”
“I asked you to consult.”
“About dating.”
“Yes.”
“Which sounds suspiciously like paying a woman to emotionally rehabilitate you.”
Emily covered a cough that was definitely laughter.
Damian looked toward her.
She stared at her computer.
I continued.
“If I ever agree to help, there are rules.”
His attention returned immediately.
“I’m listening.”
“You don’t pay whatever I ask.”
“You pay my normal hourly consulting rate.”
“No gifts.”
“No secret checks.”
“No buying my office building.”
He actually looked disappointed by that one.
“No background investigations into my personal life.”
Silence.
My eyes narrowed.
“You already did one.”
“Basic security.”
“Damian.”
“I needed to know who canceled a Moretti-Bellini wedding.”
“Did you find anything exciting?”
“You have a parking ticket from 2022.”
Emily gasped.
“Olivia!”
I ignored her.
“Delete anything you obtained beyond publicly available professional information.”
He considered.
Then nodded.
“Done.”
“No men following me.”
“If there is a specific threat—”
“You tell me.”
“You offer options.”
“I decide unless police say otherwise.”
His jaw tightened.
He did not like that.
Good.
“And one more thing.”
“What?”
“You answer questions honestly.”
“Even if the answer makes you look bad.”
His expression became serious.
“That may happen often.”
“I assumed.”
Damian stood.
“Six sessions.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“Six.”
“You teach me how ordinary people build relationships.”
“I follow your rules.”
“If after six you decide I’m hopeless, you fire me again.”
Emily muttered:
“She enjoys that.”
I looked at her.
She returned to typing.
Then I looked at Damian.
I should have refused.
Instead I heard the sentence again.
I thought wanting had nothing to do with it.
Maybe six conversations could not fix thirty-eight years.
They were not supposed to.
But if a man with Damian’s power was genuinely asking how to stop confusing obligation with choice, perhaps teaching him to ask better questions was not the worst use of six hours.
“Fine.”
Damian’s eyebrows lifted.
“One condition.”
“Another?”
“Yes.”
“Our first lesson starts now.”
He sat again.
I leaned against the desk.
“Tell me something you’ve done that you know was wrong.”
No excuses.
No family.
No father.
No peace treaty.
Just him.
Damian stared at me for a long time.
Then he said:
“Three years ago, a restaurant owner refused to sell me his building.”
Emily stopped typing.
I held Damian’s gaze.
“What did you do?”
“I had city inspectors examine every permit he’d ever filed.”
“Were there violations?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know that beforehand?”
“No.”
“Why did you send them?”
“To make refusal expensive.”
There.
Ugly.
Honest.
“Did he sell?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still own it?”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do?”
Damian looked surprised.
“I answered your question.”
“No.”
“You confessed.”
“That is different from changing.”
His face hardened slightly.
Good.
This was where most powerful men stopped finding honesty charming.
I continued.
“If you want to learn how normal people love each other, start with something simpler.”
“What?”
“Learn how to hear no without turning it into a problem you’re entitled to solve.”
For nearly ten seconds Damian said nothing.
Then:
“I’ll contact the former owner.”
“Not to pressure him.”
“I know.”
“And?”
“I’ll offer an independent review of the sale.”
“And if he wants nothing from you?”
Damian’s jaw shifted.
“I leave him alone.”
That was lesson one.
I should have realized then that teaching Damian Moretti to accept the word no was going to change far more than his dating life.
Because forty-eight hours later, Isabella Bellini walked into my office carrying a flash drive and said:
“My father is going to blame Olivia for everything.”
Damian stood beside me.
His face went cold.
Isabella looked directly at him.
“And if you want to prove that canceled wedding actually freed both of us, don’t threaten him.”
May you like
She placed the flash drive on my desk.
“Help me expose him.”
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