Cormac follows. “Crowd control in place. We’ll keep the civilians under control once you’re inside.”
Lars checks his watch. “We’re on schedule.”
The service door is locked—standard bolt—but Stefano has it picked in seconds. We slip inside, weapons concealed under jackets, nerves locked down tight. The hall is dim, a narrow passage once meant for clergy, now commandeered by men with guns.
A whisper of incense lingers in the air, mixing with dust and age-old secrets. I push forward, eyes sharp, body taut.
Zara’s here. I can feel it in my bones. She’s close.
And I swear to every god that’s ever ruled—nothing will stop me from reaching her.
Lars lifts two fingers, signaling the left corner up ahead. “The sanctuary should be straight through the next arch.”
We pause just short of it. I raise a fist. The men fall into place behind me, breath quiet, eyes locked.
This is it. “On my mark,” I say.
And then I move. Through the arch. Into the sanctuary.
Straight toward the altar. Toward her. Toward war.
The doors to St.Bellamy’s sanctuary open like the gates to my own personal hell.
I step forward on shaking legs, the sound of the Bridal March coming from the organ is broken only by the scraping of my heels against polished marble. My dress fits perfectly, but it’s suffocating me in lace and feigned tradition. Every stitch feels like a binding. The weight of the veil is nothing compared to the pressure in my chest. I count my steps, not to keep rhythm with the music but to keep from passing out.
When the doors close behind me, sealing my fate with a final, jarring thud, my heart drops.
Rows of strangers in borrowed tuxedos and gaudy jewelry fill the pews, their heads turning like vultures scenting blood. There’s no warmth here, no joy. Only calculation, alliance, threat disguised as ceremony. I keep my eyes forward, not because I want to see the man waiting at the altar, but because I can’t bear to see the smug, knowing faces of the crowd around me.
My father waits at the aisle's end. His face is full of pride and power masquerading as paternal love. When I reach him, he doesn’t smile. Just extends his arm, and I place my hand in his like a soldier receiving orders. His fingers clamp down, firm, unyielding.
Then he leans forward and disgust runs through me as hekisses my cheek. It’s a Judas kiss. Hollow, mocking. Meant for the cameras, for the watching eyes.
When he places my hand in Anthony Falco’s, I fight the urge to pull it back and scream. I look up at Anthony’s face, and it takes everything in me not to recoil. His smile is wide, teeth gleaming like he's already won.
He leans down, whispers near my ear, “Be sure to smile, my sweet bride.”
I grip the bouquet tighter, the stems cracking in my hand.
The priest clears his throat.
The gunshots start before he speaks.
Not one or two—a goddamn hailstorm. Screams rip through the pews. Heels clatter against marble. Someone knocks over a floral pedestal. The organist slumps forward onto the keys, letting out one last awful chord.
My veil is yanked back by the sudden gust as the sanctuary doors explode inward, and a black-clad battalion storms in, armed and unflinching. Controlled violence.
Gasps, cries, a woman shrieking somewhere near the back.
I don’t scream.
I don’t move.
I stand frozen in the center aisle, hands still wrapped tight around my bouquet like it’s a weapon.
I’d been prepared to marry a monster.
I’d shoved myself into this lace coffin, let them pin me into place and promise me away, just to keep the peace. Simply to stay alive.
