Page 156 of Vicious Kingdom

My body reacted before my mind could process—diving sideways off the pew, hitting the hardwood floor with a painful thud as something whistled past my ear. The crack of gunfire exploded through the sanctuary, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Splinters erupted from the pew where I’d been kneeling seconds before.

My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat thundering in my ears. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The taste of copper flooded my mouth as I bit my tongue.

“You traitorous little bitch,” a voice hissed from behind me, that disgusting peach scent growing stronger.

I crawled forward, using the pews as cover, frantically trying to put distance between myself and my would-be killer. Another deafening crack split the air. The bullet punched through the wooden bench inches from my hand, showering me with splinters that stung like angry hornets.

I bit back a scream and changed direction, zigzagging toward the side aisle. The smell of gunpowder mingled with that sickening sweet scent.

“You think you can just walk away?” The voice was male, dripping with scorn. “After everything you’ve done?”

My mind raced through faces, trying to place him. After the living nightmare of the last week, and the blessed end to the one person who should have stood by my side, this terrible consequence was the newest horror in the epilogue of my marriage.

I reached the end of the pew and risked a glance back. He stood in the center aisle, gun extended, face twisted in a mask of hatred. I recognize him as one of my husband’s soldiers.

“You have it all wrong!” I protested, knowing the words fell on deaf ears.

I’d heard the whispers. I knew what they said about me.

The soldier barked a harsh laugh. “You think you can murder the don, and we wouldn’t find out?”

“I didn’t kill him,” I insisted.

I wish I had.

I scampered back, but the soldier bounded forward, gun raised.

“Rot in hell, Black Widow,” he snarled.

The gun barrel leveled at my face. My limbs froze, throat constricting around a scream that wouldn’t come. This was it. My second chance at life, snuffed out on the same day I’d thought I’d gained my freedom.

The heavy church door crashed open behind him. The Made Man half-turned, startled by the intrusion.

“Put it down, my son.” Father Donelli’s voice, normally gentle and warm during Sunday mass, had turned to steel.

The soldier sneered, gun still trained on me. “Stay out of this, holy man. This doesn’t concern you.”

I caught sight of Father Donelli’s weathered face, his eyes hard as flint. In his trembling hands—hands that had only ever offered communion and blessings—he clutched a hunting rifle.

“This is God’s house,” Father Donelli said, stepping forward. “And she is under the church’s protection.”

The soldier scoffed.

Not taking the threat seriously, the Made Man turned his attention back to me. The gun trained to my head. His finger curled on the trigger.

There wasn’t time to beseech the heavenly powers for a final blessing on my soul. I was going to meet my maker. I trembled, but not from fear.

No, I was angry.

Life hadn’t been kind, and now it was over.

I rose on shaking legs. My gaze pinned on my doom. “Fuck you! I wish it had been me!”

“This is for Don Moretti,” the soldier snapped.

Time slowed to a long, drawn out heartbeat.

A bullet cracked through the air.