“You disgust me,” I breathe, shoving against his chest.
He pins me to the wall, the edge of a gilded mirror digging into my shoulder. His voice is a whisper near my ear, sticky and vile. “You think I care? You’ll be mine by nightfall. And every time you tell me no, it’s just going to make fucking you so much sweeter.”
I kick at his shin, but he doesn’t flinch.
“You think you’re still in control?” he hisses. “You’re not. You’re just a pawn in your daddy’s little world. But me? I’m the king on the other side. And tonight, you become my wife.”
His hand slides up my thigh, and I shove with everything I have. “Get off me!”
He finally releases me, chuckling as he steps back. My breath comes in short, ragged bursts, rage and revulsion twisting in my gut.
He fixes his cufflinks like nothing happened. “You’ll come around. They always do.”
I grab a vase from the side table and hurl it. It shatters against the wall behind him.
Anthony’s grin fades, just for a second.
Then he points to the dress. “Put it on. Leave your whorish attitude behind when you walk to me at the church. Don’t be a fucking embarrassment.”
And with that, he’s gone.
I crumple to the floor, shaking, the shards of the broken vase glittering like little pieces of myself scattered across the tile.
The heat in my chest builds until it bursts behind my eyes.
I will not be his. Not now. Not ever.
The warehouse issilent except for the rustle of maps and the hushed drone of planning voices. We're tucked into the deepest wing of my most secure storage facility—an old shipping dock we converted years ago to be impenetrable from both bullets and surveillance. No one gets in without me knowing. Not Kavanagh eyes. Not a rat with a death wish.
The past twenty-four hours have led us here. Lachlan’s guard led us to a business associate. That man, after losing three toes, finally handed over his invitation. The invitation led us to St. Bellamy’s Cathedral. The unassuming church that will become a battlefield this evening.
My men gather around the reinforced steel table. The air is thick with tension, loyalty, and the weight of what’s about to happen. Lars stands to my right, a quiet shadow with fury burning under his calm exterior. Every soldier here was handpicked for tonight. Trusted. Vetted. Dead men walking if they fuck this up.
I let the silence hold for a moment longer before repeating the steps we’ve been going over for the past twelve hours. “Here’s the objective: we hit St. Bellamy’s just before the vows. No ceremony. No rings. No fucking wedding.”
A few smirks flicker around the room, but no one dares to laugh.
“The team splits into three,” I continue. “Dom, Phil, and Emilio—take the south entrance. You’ll deal with the security detail Anthony Falco brought in. No words. No warnings. Take them out.”
They nod grimly.
“Cormac, Andy, you handle crowd control. Contain the guests. Make sure no one tries to play the hero.”
“Yes, boss.”
I look to the last crew, my most brutal enforcers. “Stefano, Lars, and Santino—you’re with me. We go in through the cathedral’s service entrance. Once inside, we cut straight up the east corridor to the sanctuary. Zara is the priority. I don’t care if the roof caves in—she comes out alive.”
I lean forward, hands pressed flat to the table. “Falco is expendable. If you get a clean shot, take it. But Lachlan stays breathing.”
Dom raises a brow. “You’re sure you don’t want to take him out while we have the chance?”
I level him with a stare that could cleave stone. “Lachlan is mine.”
They understand.
“Listen carefully,” I add, letting my voice cut through the tension like a blade. “If anything happens to Zara—if she’s even scratched—every single one of you pays. Not just in blood. Your families. Your homes. Your names. I will make your bloodlines ghosts.”
A pulse of dread moves through the room. This isn’t bravado. This is my fucking truth.
