But when the bullets start flying, I realize something I hadn’t been willing to admit, not even to myself.
I’d rather die than give myself to Anthony Falco.
A body drops near me, blood staining a powder-blue tux. Not Anthony. Unfortunately. That coward ran the moment the first shot rang out, vanishing into the vestry like the spineless rat he is.
I turn, twisting on instinct and arms wrap around my shoulders, my bouquet falling to the marble floor.
Hands, rough and strong, yank me back. I twist, kick, my heel connects with someone’s shin. A grunt. I try again, but this time a hand clamps over my mouth, and thick arms hold me tighter.
Then, a voice. Calm. Deep. Almost familiar.
“Don’t fight it, relax. You’re not meant for him.”
A hood drops over my head.
They think I’m scared.
That tying me to a chair, stripping me of my defenses could ever compare to being tied to Anthony Falco. Maybe it worked for a minute. Maybe when I first arrived in this room—hands bound behind my back, ankles lashed to the legs of the chair, hood still covering my head. But now as the adrenaline begins to fade, I welcome the escape they provided.
The two men that carried me here begin to walk away. One says to me, “Enzo will be in to see you soon.”
Enzo Marchetti. I should have known this could only be the work of another crime boss. The man that my father hated. The one he called a snake, the one that he vowed to destroy for as long as I can remember.
But I’m not screaming now.
Now, I’m just breathing. Waiting. Thinking.
Because if Enzo Marchetti is really the man behind this, he could be using me the same way my father was.
I twist my wrists against the binding again, the silk cord slipping against my skin, holding tight. I’m not getting out, but it helps to feel like there’s something that could lead to freedom.
Muffled voices drift through the door. I hear boots, laughter. Someone says“she’s ready”in a voice too smug for my liking. Then the door creaks open.
Three sets of footsteps. One heavier, slower. The others aremore purposeful. One moves closer—close enough for me to feel the shift in the air beside me.
Then I hear it.
“Angel.”
My breath stalls.
My head tips forward slightly beneath the hood. I know that voice. Every syllable rolls over me like smoke and memory, far too intimate to mistake.
It’s him.
Theo. No, Enzo.
The room shifts and my mind tries to reconcile the fact that the man I haven’t stopped thinking about for two years is my family's rival. The change isn’t in sound or temperature, but in gravity—heavier, thick with revelation. My heart beats once, hard. My hands clench tighter.
I should be furious. Should scream and curse and remind him exactly how I feel about being tied to a chair. But I don’t. Because suddenly I’m not thinking about the restraints, or the blood in my mouth.
I’m thinking about him.
And what it means that he’s here.
There’s a rustle of fabric beside me. Then, a man begins to speak. Latin. Formal, reverent, practiced. Each word echoes off the walls, too surreal to process. When he says the name ‘Christus,’ I realize it’s a fucking priest.
This can’t be happening. “What the fuck are you doing?” I yell through the material.
