The woman at the altar met none of the details that mattered.
The scar on her cheek—jagged, old, not surgical. The way she stood—weight subtly shifted to shield Yannis without thinking. The way her eyes tracked the room—alert, wary, but not predatory. And most telling of all—
The way Yannis leaned into her.
Trusted her.
My grip loosened.
“This isn’t her,” I said quietly.
Petros blinked. “Boss, the facial recognition—”
“Is wrong,” I cut in. “Or lazy. Or manipulated.”
Understanding dawned slowly on his face, followed by something like disbelief.
“She saved him,” I continued, eyes never leaving the altar. “Look at his hands. Look at her posture. That is not a butcher. That is a shield.”
The phone slipped from my fingers, clattering softly against the marble floor.
A ripple moved through the guests as I stepped forward. Men rose from their seats. Some bowed. Some stiffened. Some glared openly, hatred and fear warring in their eyes.
Every one of them knew who I was.
And every one of them knew I had not come to negotiate.
I walked down the aisle, each step measured, controlled, the sound of my shoes echoing like a countdown. The world narrowed to the altar. To my son. To the woman standing between him and everything that had tried to take him today.
I didn’t look at Harris. I didn’t look at the Thompsons or the Vasquezes or the ghosts of alliances and betrayals lining the pews.
I was coming for my child.
And anyone who misunderstood my purpose—
Anyone at all—
Would learn, very quickly, what happens when a father who has already lost everything refuses to lose one thing more..
Yannis—small, rigid, painfully composed for an eight-year-old—now had both hands wrapped around her fingers as though she were the only solid thing left in the world. He leaned into her hip unconsciously, the way he used to lean into Maria when thunder scared him at night. That single detail hit harder than any ambush ever had.
When I reached the platform, he lifted his head.
His eyes—my eyes—gray and storm-deep, glistened with something fierce and fragile all at once. Courage layered over fear. Resolve stitched clumsily together with desperation.
“Dad...”
The sound shattered the chapel.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t confident. It was thin and careful, like ice cracking under the first step of spring. But it was a voice. His voice. A sound I had waited three years, four months, and seventeen days to hear again.
My knees nearly buckled.
“...this is your bride,” he continued, swallowing hard. His fingers tightened around hers. “Marry her. Immediately.”
The words landed like a gunshot.
A collective inhale rippled through the pews. Somewhere behind me, a woman gasped. I felt Petros stiffen at my back, his breath going sharp.
