Lars steps up, arms crossed, calm as ever. “Everyone here knows the stakes. You’ve all sworn oaths. But if you’ve got doubts, speak now and walk away with your life.”
No one moves.
“Good,” I say. “Load up.”
Outside, the SUV is already running, matte black witharmored plating and bulletproof glass. The convoy behind us is identical—three more vehicles, identical in build, meant to confuse anyone tailing us. I slide into the backseat, Lars beside me, his rifle in his lap.
As we pull away from the docks, the convoy in motion, Lars watches me for a long beat.
“You good?” he asks.
I adjust the holster at my side. “I’ve never been clearer.”
“You’re about to crash a wedding.”
“I’m about to save my future.”
He grins smugly. “The tux is a nice touch.”
“It’s my wedding day, it seemed appropriate.”
He shakes his head but doesn’t argue. “You’re sure this priest will do it? Marry you on the spot?”
“He’s already been paid. Generously.”
I pull out my phone and dial Rowan.
“Yeah?”
“Is the priest in position?”
“He’s at your penthouse. I’ve made sure the room is set and secure. Flowers, paperwork, everything you asked for.”
“Good. He doesn’t leave until we return. Understood?”
“Yes, boss.”
I end the call and slide the phone back into my jacket.
“Jesus,” Lars shakes his head beside me. “You’re really gonna marry her tonight.”
“I told you,” I say, eyes locked on the skyline ahead. “She’s mine.”
And by the time this night is over, every single person who tried to take her from me will learn what it means to steal from a Marchetti.
The cathedral loomslike a tomb carved from stone, towering and cold against the setting sun. St. Bellamy’s has alwaysbeen a symbol in this city—of sanctity, tradition, power. Tonight, it becomes a battlefield.
The convoy slows three blocks out. The streets are blocked with wedding guests, security, and Falco muscle in black suits that don't quite mask their true purpose. We park in a narrow alley behind the service entrance. Dom kills the engine, and we move quickly, each man trained and ready.
Before Lars and I are even out of the SUV, I hear the whisper of silenced gunfire—quick, precise. When my boots hit the pavement, the guards who were standing at the service entrance are already down, their bodies crumpled in the shadows, blood seeping into the cracks of the concrete.
“Check comms,” Lars says quietly, earpiece already snug in place.
A chorus of clicks and affirmatives echoes in our ears.
I step out into the chill, air sharp with humidity and tension. The cathedral bells start tolling in the distance, marking the hour. Seven. My lucky number.
Through the comms, Dom’s voice crackles. “South entrance clear.”
