“The Thompsons are going to lose their minds.”
“He just stole their alliance in front of everyone.”
“This means war.”
Let them talk.
Petros opened the rear door.
Yannis climbed in first, scrambling across the leather seat and settling in the middle like this was any ordinary day—like his father hadn’t just married a woman drenched in blood and secrets.
He buckled himself without prompting, humming softly under his breath, a tune Maria used to sing.
Elena hesitated on the curb.
The veil fluttered in the breeze. Blood had crusted dark at her temple. Her lip was split, swollen. She looked like a woman who had run through fire and somehow survived.
I leaned closer, my voice low enough that only she could hear.
“Get in,” I said. Not unkindly. Not gently. Simply inevitable.
Her eyes lifted to mine.
Fear lived there. Real fear. Not the theatrical kind. The kind that seeps into bone and never leaves.
She obeyed.
Every movement was stiff, measured—like someone stepping into a cage that hadn’t yet decided whether to lock or bare its teeth.
She lowered herself into the back seat beside Yannis, careful not to brush against me as she passed, as though contact alone might provoke something irreversible.
Petros slid behind the wheel without a word. I took the front passenger seat, needing the distance, needing the space to keep my hands from doing what they wanted to do. The door shut with a muted thud—solid, final, coffin-heavy.
The Ferrari pulled away from the curb.
In the side mirror, St. Maribel’s Chapel shrank, its white stucco glowing deceptively pure in the afternoon sun. Then it vanished behind a bend in the road, swallowed by palms and traffic and consequence.
Silence rushed in to take its place.
Not a peaceful silence. The kind that presses on the eardrums, waiting for something to break.
Then—
“Elena,” Yannis said softly from the back seat.
My heart stuttered.
Once would’ve been a miracle. Twice in a single day felt like the universe mocking me for every prayer I’d ever screamed into the dark.
After three years of nothing—no words, no sound, just silence so absolute it felt like punishment—his voice cut through the car like light through a crack.
“Sweetheart,” she answered.
The word came out gentle. I caught her reflection in the mirror as she reached for his hand, her thumb brushing over his knuckles in a slow, soothing motion.
The exact same way Maria used to.
My jaw tightened.
