“No.”
The priest looks up.
“What was that, girl?”
I straighten. “No.”
Conor’s grip tightens.
“No, no, no—” The word builds like a pulse inside me. “This is wrong. I’m not marrying this man… I’m not marrying anyone. Not today. Not ever.”
“You don’t have a choice,” Uncle Liam snaps, stepping forward. “Your blood belongs to us.”
“I am not property,” I spit. “I am not a pawn. I am not a bride. I amnot yours.”
The church is quiet.
The priest sighs, then begins to speak over me anyway. “Dearly beloved, we gather here?—”
“No.” My voice cracks. “Please… Someone…Listen to me.”
I tremble, I scream the word “no,” raw and broken and loud enough to echo across the high stained-glass windows.
“No,” I scream again as loud as I can.
And then?—
The doors slam open.
The silence implodes like shattered glass.
Boots on marble. A gust of wind. Rage, leather, and blood still drying on his shirt.
Matteo.
He’s here.
Behind him, Marco and Milo. Leo. And Nico.
But it’s Matteo who owns the room.
He stalks down the aisle like the pews owe him a debt. His coat billows behind him like black wings, his fists clenched, jaw carved in stone.
Every eye turns. Every breath holds, and I can’t breathe, because I see it in his eyes.
Murder.
Fire.
He stops halfway down the aisle, eyes locked on Rory.
“No one moves.” His voice isn’t loud, but it doesn’t need to be.
Because he is a Messina.
And he has arrived.
Chapter 47
