They bowed.
Deeply.
And stepped aside without a word.
I pushed through the heavy oak doors.
The chapel swallowed me in silence.
It smelled of lilies and candle wax and old wood polish—sanctified, peaceful scents that clashed violently with the storm inside my chest. Sunlight streamed through stained glass, scattering fractured colors across the aisle. Rows of pews stretched out on either side, filled with bodies that went unnaturally still the moment I entered.
Heads turned.
Whispers died mid-breath.
I scanned the room with a predator’s efficiency—left, right, back, exits, faces, hands—
And then my vision locked.
There.
At the altar.
Yannis.
Standing upright. Breathing. Alive.
Safe.
The force of that sight hit me so hard my knees nearly gave out. My son stood small and solemn in the vast space, his dark hair neatly combed, his shoulders squared in a way that was painfully familiar. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t restrained.
He was holding someone’s hand.
A woman stood beside him.
She was bloodied. Bruised. Wearing a torn, dirt-streaked wedding gown that had once been white. Her lip was split, her nose swollen, one eye already darkening with a bruise. The veil hung crooked from her hair like a broken wing.
But she was standing between him and the world.
Protectively.
Instinctively.
Petros appeared at my shoulder, breath sharp. He lifted his phone, already pulling up an image. “Boss... that woman at the altar. She’s the one—”
I took the device from his hand.
The photograph filled the screen.
A woman with similar coloring—dark hair, pale skin, sharp cheekbones. Hard eyes. Cold mouth.
The woman I had hunted across continents.
Maria’s murderer.
My fingers tightened reflexively. The glass creaked under pressure.
Then I looked up again. Really looked.
