Paraplegic Mafia Boss Left At His Own Wedding — The Poor Maid Said: “Shall We Dance?”

Описание: Paraplegic Mafia Boss Left At His Own Wedding — The Poor Maid Said: “Shall We Dance?”

In the Rosewood Estate garden, overflowing with white roses and three hundred and fifty of New York’s most powerful guests, the man who once made the entire underworld tremble is sitting in a wheelchair, waiting for his bride. Sebastian Corsetti. A mafia boss who has washed his hands of violence. A real estate billionaire. The man who, three years ago, had an enemy’s bullet tear through his spine, stealing his legs but failing to steal his empire. Today was supposed to be the happiest day of his life. But the bride never shows. Thirty minutes pass. Then an hour. Then two. The murmuring begins to spread through the garden like a low fire creeping across a dry field. Senators, chief executives, financial titans, all of them sitting there, watching the most powerful man in the city get abandoned right in front of their eyes. “Poor thing, after that assassination attempt…” “Money can’t buy new legs.” “Who would want to be tied to a cripple for life?” Sebastian hears it all. Every word. Every venomous whisper. His hands clamp down on the wheelchair’s arms until his knuckles bleach white. Then the message arrives. Thomas, his most loyal bodyguard, steps forward with a face as pale as paper and holds out the phone with trembling hands. “Sebastian, I can’t. I’m at the airport with Lorenzo. Yes, Lorenzo Valenti, the one you thought was your enemy. He can give me what you can’t: a whole man, a future that doesn’t require pushing a wheelchair. I’m tired. Oh, and Lorenzo says hello. He says that bullet should’ve gone through your heart.” Lorenzo Valenti. The man who ordered him shot three years ago. The man who took his legs. And now he’s in bed with Sebastian’s fiancée. Sebastian reads the message again and again. Once. Twice. Three times. As if the letters might change their meaning if he looks long enough. But they don’t. The world collapses without a sound. Then someone opens the voice message Lorenzo attached. His triumphant laughter blasts across the garden. “Hey, Corsetti! Victoria’s lying next to me right here. She says I ride better than your wheelchair ever could. Congratulations on the wedding, you cripple.” Laughter erupts from the side of his rivals. Phones rise into the air, hundreds of them, taking pictures, recording video, as if Sebastian is a dying animal in a zoo. Men who once bowed before him now look at him with contempt, with relish, even with pity. “That’s it, Corsetti. You’re finished.” “Not even money can keep a woman.” Sebastian goes rigid, as if turned to stone. He survived the bullet through his spine. He rebuilt an empire from a wheelchair.

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