Red Card to Your Heart: You Don't Deserve My Love Extra Time novel Chapter 33

I gathered each tiny fragment of the shattered photograph, collecting pieces from the floor, from my hair, even from the creases in my clothes. With shaking hands and clear tape, I tried desperately to reconstruct what Salvatore had destroyed.

Daniel's silhouette became a mosaic of broken pieces—a metaphor for everything we'd lost. I traced the jagged outline with my fingertip, tears falling onto the makeshift collage of memories.

"Don't cry, Isabella," I whispered to myself, biting my lip until I tasted copper. "You don't get to cry."

The phantom of Daniel's voice echoed in my mind: "Isabella Foster, smile for me."

But there was nothing left to smile about. The photograph wasn't the only thing that had shattered—my past, my memories, my purpose, all reduced to fragments I couldn't fully reassemble.

For days after Carina's execution, Salvatore kept his distance. When he finally returned, his expression was resolute.

"We're getting married this weekend," he announced without preamble. "At the chapel in the mountains—the one with the stone archway and stained glass. The place you always wanted."

I remembered mentioning it once, nearly a year ago. Salvatore had dismissed the idea immediately. His security team had practically revolted at the suggestion. The chapel stood well beyond Ricci territory—a strategic nightmare with the entire organization gathered in one vulnerable location.

I never brought it up again.

Now Salvatore was willing to compromise his own safety to please me. He sent his most trusted men to scout the area and establish security protocols.

What he didn't know was that FBI Agent Fernandez had been waiting for precisely this opportunity. For five years, I'd fed information to Daniel's former partner, patiently building toward this moment. The remote location, the gathering of every key player in the Ricci organization—it was the perfect trap.

All I had to do was get Salvatore to lower his guard. This small vulnerability was all I'd managed to create—and it would have to be enough.

On our wedding day, Salvatore spared no expense. The small chapel was transformed with cascading white flowers and hundreds of candles. His men dressed me in a couture gown of Italian silk and handmade lace, placing a diamond-studded comb in my carefully styled hair.

"The boss ordered everything himself," his underboss told me with something like respect. "Even the cake recipe—he remembered you once mentioned your favorite was lemon with blackberry."

Such attention to detail from a man who ordered executions over breakfast.

I walked down the aisle toward him, each step bringing me closer to the culmination of five years of calculated deception.

When the priest asked if I would take Salvatore as my husband, I remained silent, my face expressionless.

Salvatore's dark lashes lowered, a rueful smile crossing his features. He cupped my face in his hands as if I were made of glass.

"Say you will, cara mia," he whispered, his thumbs caressing my cheekbones. "Say you'll be my wife."

The words had barely left his lips when the stained glass windows exploded inward, gunshots echoing through the sacred space.

"Interpol agents! Everybody down!" voices shouted from multiple directions.

"It's a fucking raid!" one of Salvatore's men screamed. "Boss, we need to move!"

The chapel erupted into violent chaos. Salvatore's men surged forward, returning fire while attempting to form a human shield around him. In the confusion, I was knocked to the ground, white silk billowing around me like sea foam as I fell.

Salvatore drew his gun with practiced efficiency, his expression transforming from tender groom to ruthless don in an instant. Yet his first concern wasn't for himself.

When Salvatore finally found shelter in an abandoned hunting cabin deep in the woods, he noticed the missing bandages. His brow furrowed in confusion as he examined my bare, bleeding feet.

My heart hammered against my ribs. If he realized my betrayal—if he understood I was working with federal agents—he would kill me without hesitation or remorse.

I wasn't afraid of death. I had made peace with dying the moment I agreed to infiltrate his organization. But I couldn't bear to die by his hand. The ultimate humiliation would be to fall at the feet of the man I'd sworn to destroy.

But Salvatore's suspicion never materialized. He simply re-wrapped my wounds, his touch unexpectedly tender.

"These beautiful feet might scar," he said softly, genuine regret in his voice. "I'm sorry, bella. Are you afraid?"

He looked exhausted, the invincible Don Ricci reduced to a hunted man in a filthy cabin. He pulled me against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.

"I've hurt you so many times," he confessed, his voice barely audible. "All those times I chose Carina, all the pain I caused you..."

His arms tightened around me.

"We could have had our child. We could have built something real together."

In the distance, I heard the faint sound of helicopters approaching.

Salvatore didn't seem to notice, lost in what sounded dangerously like a goodbye.