Revenge Wedding with the Mafia Queen

Sean's POV

"Mr. Salvatore's car will arrive in ten minutes."

"Oh my god, I can't wait! They say he never makes public appearances!"

"Brandon, is the champagne ready? We need to greet him properly!"

I stood outside Atelier Milano, their excited voices sharp in my ears.

Through the glass door, I saw a crowd of well-dressed socialites inside. Men chatted in small groups, women fussed over flower arrangements near the display window, and one man carried champagne flutes toward them.

Brandon Rossi.

My former best friend. The best man at my wedding. The bastard who fucked my fiancée.

I pushed the door open. A bell chimed, and every head turned.

"I'm sorry, we're closed for a private event today," a sales associate said politely, though her eyes were already judging my outfit.

Ignoring her, I walked straight to the clothing rack near the window.

There hung a silver suit—custom-made for me by Lucia, for the Five Families gala in three days.

I reached for it just as another hand did the same.

Brandon froze, then turned. His expression shifted from confusion to shock, then swiftly to contempt.

"My god... Sean?" He let go of the rack and took a step back as if avoiding trash. "Sean Romano?"

His eyes swept over me—a plain navy wool coat, no visible logos, simple leather shoes.

No wonder he looked disgusted.

The socialites stopped chatting and stared. When they saw my understated clothes, their faces mirrored his—sneering, curious, amused.

"What are you doing here?" Brandon's voice rose, dripping with mockery. "Applying for a janitor position?"

"Three years and this is what you've become?" a man laughed loudly. "Can't even afford decent clothes."

"How did security let him in? We're expecting a VIP. We can't have him ruining the atmosphere."

Idiots. My clothes were from the most exclusive private tailor in Naples, but they wouldn't know quality if it slapped them. They only recognized flashy logos.

I ignored them and focused on the silver suit. "Please take that down for me," I told the associate.

The air went still for a second.

Then erupted in harsh laughter.

"What?" Brandon laughed exaggeratedly. "Sean, are you insane?"

He stepped between me and the suit, his voice turning shrill. "That's custom for Mr. Salvatore! Do you have any idea what it costs? You couldn't afford it in a lifetime!"

I kept my tone even. "I know who it's for. So please take it down."

Brandon paused, then laughed even harder. He turned to the others. "He says he knows! My god, who does he think he is?"

The women giggled behind their hands.

"Sean, get a grip," one woman said. "When Vivian left you at the altar, all of New York laughed. People still remember you running out of the Waldorf Astoria in your tux."

"Yeah, you must be doing really badly, huh? Why else dress like that?" Brandon stepped closer, oozing fake pity.

"Sean, for old times' sake, I'll throw you a bone." His voice softened, but the condescension made it worse. "Vivian's family needs help. We're hosting several important dinners. Vivian wanted a reliable maid, but I'm sure she wouldn't mind a male attendant to specifically look after my son."

He paused, his eyes even more dismissive. "You were always good at serving people—rubbing Vivian's shoulders, fetching her drinks. Taking care of a kid shouldn't be hard. Room and board included, plus a uniform. Better than living on the streets."

Another round of laughter erupted.

"A manservant? Is he even fit to enter the Rossi home?"

"A uniform? That's for hired help. Sean, think carefully—once you put that on, you'll never hold your head up again."

"Then again, he never had much to hold up anyway."

"Brandon, you're too kind. I wouldn't lift a finger for someone like him."

I remembered Lucia's words.

"If anyone makes you uncomfortable, tell me. I'll handle it."

She'd said it while cleaning her pistol, her cold eyes flashing with murderous intent.

Lucia's possessiveness was terrifying. If she knew I was being humiliated by these trash, she'd kill them. Slowly.

But I didn't need her to.

I reached into my inner pocket and pulled out the black card.

Matte black finish, a crest embossed in the center—a blood-red rose entwined with a black hawk.

The Salvatore family emblem.

Beneath it, the numbers: 1108.

Brandon's expression shifted. He lunged for it.

"Where did you steal this?" His nails scraped my knuckles, leaving a red mark.

I frowned, stepped back, and calmly handed the card to the associate.

"Fake! It has to be fake!" Brandon yelled furiously. "Sean, you've got some nerve! Forging a Salvatore credential?"

He turned to the other men. "Look at this! He's so desperate to look rich he'd do anything!"

"My god, what is this crap?" a man stepped closer to inspect the card. "A ten-dollar plastic fake from a street vendor?"

"Sean, you went to all this trouble just to impersonate Mr. Salvatore?"

"You think we don't know what real family credentials look like? Their actual insignias are solid gold!"

Brandon smirked triumphantly. "Someone like you could never reach that level."

"Security!" he shouted. "Get him out of here! And call the police! Forgery of a family insignia is a felony!"

But the associate had already taken the card.

She stared at it, her eyes widening.

Then she looked at me, her face instantly pale.

Her hands trembled violently. The card shook between her fingers, nearly dropping.

"S-Sir..." Her voice was a choked whisper, full of fear and awe.

She bowed deeply at the waist, a perfect ninety degrees.

"Please wait. I'll... I'll get the suit for you immediately."