I turn to look at him, and whatever he sees in my expression makes him regret asking.
"They’ll pay."
The organ music reaches a crescendo, and I know without looking that the bride is walking down the aisle. Taking her final steps as a free woman. In sixty seconds, she'll belong to me, just like everything else Lorenzo owes.
"Go," I whisper into my mic.
The cathedral doors don't just open.
They explode.
Chapter 3: Camilla
The world turns to chaos in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
The massive cathedral doors implode inward with a sound like thunder, ancient wood splintering into deadly fragments. Screams pierce the air as guests dive for cover behind pews, their designer clothes suddenly meaningless against the violence flooding into our sanctuary.
Men in black tactical gear pour through the breach like a dark tide, automatic weapons raised. Their faces are hidden behind masks, but their intent is crystal clear in every controlled movement.
"Nobody move!" The calm voice cuts through the pandemonium. "This is not about you. Stay down and you won't be harmed."
I stand frozen at the altar, my wedding dress suddenly feeling ten pounds heavier. Lorenzo's hand on mine has gone slack, and when I turn to look at him, his face is bone-white with terror. Behind us, Father Giuseppe backs away from the altar, his hands raised in prayer or surrender. I can't tell which.
Papa pushes forward from his seat in the front row, but one of the masked men trains his weapon on him instantly. "Sit down, old man. This isn't your show anymore."
This can't be happening.
This can't be real.
Wedding day nightmares are supposed to involve dropping the ring or forgetting vows, not armed men turning a cathedral into a war zone.
But then I see him.
He walks through the chaos like an avenging angel. Like the screaming guests and splintered wood and broken stained glass are all part of his personal kingdom. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the kind of fluid confidence that comes from absolute certainty. He's not wearing a mask like his men. He wants us to see his face, wants us to know exactly who's destroying our perfect day.
He's deadly handsome with dark hair and eyes, wearing a dark suit. When his gaze finds mine across the wreckage of my wedding, something cold and predatory flickers in those depths.
"Lorenzo Rossi," he says, his voice carrying easily through the cathedral despite the chaos. “You've been avoiding my calls."
Lorenzo's grip on my hand tightens painfully. "This is a house of God," he stammers. "You can't—"
"I can do whatever I want." The man in charge steps closer, and I see the exact moment he dismisses Lorenzo entirely and focuses on me. "Especially when I'm collecting what's owed."
His eyes travel over me slowly, deliberately. The wedding dress, the veil, the terror that must be written across my face. Then his lips curve into something that might generously be called a smile.
"She's even more beautiful than the photos," he observes, speaking to Lorenzo but never looking away from me. "I can see why you were eager to close this particular deal."
"Please," Lorenzo whispers, and the desperation in his voice tells me everything I need to know. This isn't random. Thisis personal. This is about money, or territory, or some other currency in the world of men who solve problems with violence.
"Please what?" The stranger's voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "Please don't take back what you stole from me? Please don't collect on your family's debts?"
He steps onto the altar platform, close enough to see the thin scar that bisects his left eyebrow.
"You borrowed two million euros from my organization six months ago," he continues conversationally, like we're discussing the weather instead of standing in the wreckage of my wedding. "Money you used to expand your shipping operation. Money you apparently forgot to pay back."
"We have cash flow issues—" Lorenzo starts.
"No, you have honesty issues." The man's voice turns sharp. "But don't worry. I'm here to solve your problem."
