My hands smooth down the silk of my skirt, fingers trembling just slightly.I hide it by adjusting the fall of fabric."Then I want to see him before it starts.Before?—"
"That would be bad luck."Her tone shifts—still sweet, but edged with steel.Final."Finish your makeup.I'll send someone for you when it's time."
Jagger
I stand at the front of the chapel, every muscle in my body coiled tight beneath the tailored suit they forced me into an hour ago.The polished marble floors throw back fractured reflections of chandeliers dripping crystal—too bright, too perfect, too much like a stage set for an execution dressed up as a celebration.
Sweat crawls down my spine despite the aggressive air conditioning.My ribs scream with every shallow breath.I shift my weight carefully, testing how much I can move without showing weakness.Not much.
The room pulses with danger disguised as festivity.Cartel wives perch on gilt chairs like jeweled birds of prey, their eyes sharp and assessing.Lieutenants line the walls in expensive suits, hands folded, faces neutral—but I see the bulges under their jackets, the way they track every movement.Bodyguards stand at each exit like sentries, and I've already counted them.Twelve.More in the hallway.
Marquez sits in the front row, Valentina beside him in crimson silk, both watching me with satisfied smiles, like they're admiring their handiwork.
My sidearm is gone, confiscated under the pretense of respect for the ceremony.I'm a federal agent standing unarmed in a room packed with the most dangerous men in three states, and every single one of them is carrying.
If I live long enough to write a memoir, this is going in it.
I force air into my lungs, ribs protesting, and scan the room again.Every exit blocked.Every angle covered.I catch the glint of a phone screen—one of the lieutenants recording, probably streaming this to someone higher up.
There's nowhere to go.No play to make.Not with this many guns in the room and mine sitting in some safe two floors up.
The pain meds are kicking in, so I straighten my spine, adjust my cufflinks, play the part, smile when expected, nod when prompted.Be the loyal soldier about to get his reward.
The organ music swells.
The double doors at the back of the chapel swing open.
And everything stops.
Every calculation.Every exit strategy.Every thread of control I've been clinging to—gone.
She appears in the doorway, backlit by the golden light from the foyer, and my lungs forget how to function.
The dress isn’t just beautiful.It’s devastating.
Silk and lace catch the light in soft, deliberate movements, nothing flashy, nothing excessive—just enough to remind me how wrong it is for something this pure to exist in a room like this.The bodice fits her cleanly, elegant and restrained, the neckline modest without trying to be.The skirt falls in quiet waves that move when she does, like it’s following her lead instead of the other way around.
She looks… untouched by the danger.Unaware of it.Or worse—aware, and walking forward anyway.
The room blurs.The chandeliers fade.The watching eyes, the lieutenants with their phones, the women whispering behind gloved hands—none of it matters.
There’s only her.
She moves like she owns the room, like she isn't walking into a trap.And something cracks open in my chest.
I want to protect her.I want to grab her hand and run.I want to tell her to turn around, to get out, to save herself before it's too late.
But I can't move.Can't speak.Can't do anything but stand here and watch her walk closer, step by terrible step.
Adena
Helpless.
That's the only word that fits.I'm standing at an altar surrounded by killers in designer suits, and I can't do a single thing to stop what's happening.
The celebrant—some priest they've paid off or threatened—opens a worn leather book.His voice echoes off the vaulted ceiling, solemn and ritualistic, like this is sacred instead of a carefully orchestrated trap.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God..."
