The Return Of The Young Marshal's

Lorenzo's Dramatic Intervention

CHAPTER 3: Lorenzo's Dramatic Intervention

The wedding march swelled through the ballroom as Cecilia walked slowly toward her doom. Connaro Lombardi stood at the altar, smirking like a cat about to devour a canary. Three hundred guests watched in uncomfortable silence, pretending they didn't know they were witnessing a sacrifice.

Then the double doors exploded open.

"STOP THIS WEDDING!"

Every head turned. A man strode through the entrance with the confidence of someone who'd walked through battlefields and emerged victorious. Lorenzo Romano, still in his simple civilian clothes, moved with lethal grace toward the altar.

"Who the hell—" Connaro started.

"I'm here to claim my bride," Lorenzo announced, his voice carrying to every corner of the vast ballroom.

The room erupted in whispers. Cecilia froze mid-step, her eyes meeting Lorenzo's for the first time.

Lorenzo's breath caught. It was her. After ten years, countless battles, and an ocean of blood—he'd found Carolina Pescatori. Except she was calling herself Cecilia Ferretti now. But those eyes... those were the same kind eyes that had saved a street rat from becoming a smear on the pavement.

"Your bride?" Connaro laughed, the sound sharp and mocking. "Listen, insect, I don't know what gutter you crawled out of, but this is a private event. Security! Remove this—"

The slap echoed like a thunderclap.

Connaro's head snapped to the side, blood trickling from his split lip. The ballroom went silent. Three hundred people collectively held their breath.

"You... you hit me?" Connaro touched his bleeding mouth, staring at his crimson fingers in disbelief. "You hit ME?"

Lorenzo said nothing. He simply walked past the stunned groom toward Cecilia.

"How DARE you!" Quintino Ferretti rushed forward, his face purple with rage. "Do you know who we are? Do you know who the Lombardi family is? Apologize RIGHT NOW, you worthless piece of—"

Lorenzo's hand moved like lightning. Another slap, harder than the first. Quintino staggered backward, crashing into a table of champagne glasses that shattered across the marble floor.

"Dio mio..." someone gasped.

"He hit a Ferretti!"

"Is he insane?"

Filippo's cane struck the floor. "GUARDS! Seize this man! I want him beaten within an inch of his life!"

Four security guards rushed forward. Lorenzo didn't even turn around. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around the first guard's wrist and twisting. The crack of breaking bone was audible. The guard screamed. The other three stopped in their tracks.

"Anyone else?" Lorenzo asked calmly.

Riccardo stepped forward, his face twisted with fury. "You cockroach! You insect! You dare enter the Ferretti estate and assault our family? I'll have you—"

"You'll have me what?" Lorenzo's eyes were cold as winter. "Killed? Tortured? I've faced worse than you and your entire family combined."

"Who IS this man?" Guglielmo demanded. "Where did he come from?"

Lorenzo reached Cecilia and took her hand gently. Up close, she was even more beautiful than he remembered—older, harder, but still her.

"I'm here to save you," he said softly.

Cecilia stared at him, confused and frightened. "I... I don't know you. Who are you?"

"Someone who owes you a debt." Lorenzo's voice was barely a whisper. "Someone who's spent ten years searching for you."

"This is insane!" Cecilia tried to pull her hand away. "Let me go! I don't know what you want, but—"

"I want to free you from this." Lorenzo gestured at Connaro, at the Ferretti family, at the entire twisted charade. "Pretend to be my wife. Just for now. I'll handle the consequences."

"Pretend to—are you mad?"

"Probably." Lorenzo's lips quirked into the ghost of a smile. "But I'm also your only way out of marrying that monster."

Connaro had recovered, wiping blood from his mouth. "You're dead, you understand? DEAD! Nobody touches a Lombardi and lives!"

"I just did," Lorenzo said without looking at him. "What are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to—"

"Connaro, tesoro!" Ginevra suddenly pushed through the crowd, tears streaming down her face. She grabbed Cecilia's other hand. "Listen to him! Please, take this chance! Whatever it means, whoever he is—he's offering you freedom!"

"Mamma—"

"Ginevra, shut your mouth!" Filippo roared. "This wedding WILL proceed! The contract—"

"The contract?" Lorenzo finally turned to face the patriarch. "Is worth nothing if the bride refuses. Isn't that right, Cecilia?"

All eyes turned to her. Cecilia stood frozen between two futures—the certain horror of Connaro Lombardi, or the unknown chaos of this mysterious stranger who'd appeared like an avenging angel.

"I..." Cecilia's voice shook. Then, suddenly, it steadied. "I refuse to marry Connaro Lombardi."

The ballroom erupted.

"WHAT?"

"She can't—"

"The contract!"

Cecilia turned to face Connaro, her chin held high. "This man—Lorenzo—he's my husband now. Or he will be. I choose him."

"You little BITCH!" Connaro lunged forward. "I paid for you! You're MINE!"

Lorenzo's foot caught Connaro squarely in the chest. The kick sent him flying backward, crashing through a decorative ice sculpture that shattered into a thousand glittering pieces. Connaro lay sprawled on the floor, blood pouring from his nose, his expensive tuxedo soaked with ice water.

"Touch her again," Lorenzo said quietly, "and I'll kill you."

"You... you..." Connaro struggled to his feet, pulling out his phone with shaking hands. "Papa! PAPA! Get here NOW!"

Ten minutes later, Timoteo Lombardi burst into the ballroom with twenty bodyguards. At sixty-five, Timoteo was a titan of Marina Azzurra's construction industry—a man who'd built an empire through intimidation, bribery, and when necessary, violence.

"Where is he?" Timoteo bellowed. "Where's the insect who dared touch my son?"

Connaro pointed at Lorenzo with a bloodied finger. "There! That's him! I want him destroyed, Papa! I want—"

Timoteo's eyes locked on Lorenzo's face. The color drained from his cheeks.

"No," he whispered. "It can't be..."

Lorenzo met his gaze steadily. "Hello, Timoteo."

What happened next would be discussed in Marina Azzurra's elite circles for years to come.

Timoteo Lombardi—feared businessman, rumored mafia associate, man who'd allegedly ordered the deaths of rivals—walked up to his son and slapped him so hard Connaro's head snapped completely around.

"APOLOGIZE!" Timoteo roared.

"Papa?" Connaro stared in disbelief. "What are you—"

Another slap, harder than the first. "APOLOGIZE TO THE SIGNORINA! NOW!"

"But Papa, he hit me! He—"

"I don't CARE if he burned you alive! APOLOGIZE!"

The ballroom was frozen in shock. Filippo stepped forward. "Timoteo, what is the meaning of—"

"SHUT UP!" Timoteo's face was sheet-white, his hands trembling. "Connaro, get on your knees. Crawl to the signorina. Apologize. NOW!"

"Papa, I don't understand—"

Timoteo kicked his own son in the back, sending him sprawling. "CRAWL! Like the worm you are! BOW to her! Apologize for EVERYTHING!"

Connaro, bleeding and humiliated, crawled across the marble floor toward Cecilia. Tears streamed down his face. "I... I'm sorry, Signorina Ferretti. Please... please forgive me..."

"Again!" Timoteo commanded. "Bow lower! Show respect!"

Connaro pressed his forehead to the floor. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! Please forgive this worthless insect!"

Three hundred guests watched in stunned silence. The mighty Lombardi heir, crawling and begging forgiveness. It was impossible. Unthinkable.

Unless...

Riccardo's voice cut through the chaos. "Who IS this man? Timoteo, why are you—"

"Don't you dare speak his name!" Timoteo snapped, still trembling. "Don't even LOOK at him! We're leaving. Now. Connaro, on your feet. The engagement is CANCELLED. The contract is VOID."