Matteo
The moment the church doors slam open behind me, I feel the entire fucking world stop.
A hush falls like ash.
I see her. In white.
Not her choice.
This isn’t her choice.
Her face is pale, streaked in fresh bruises, mascara smudged from what I know were tears. I see it in her eyes, even from halfway down the aisle.
She thought no one was coming.
But I was always going to come for her.
I take one more step. “I will not spill blood in a church,” I announce, my voice like iron dragged over gravel. “But I will not leave without her.” I know they don’t care if they spill blood in God’s house, they killed my grandmother in cold blood, but it’s not us, it’s not the Italian way.
“You don’t get to make demands in our house,” Liam says, smug from his pew near the altar. “This girl belongs to us. And this wedding?—”
“Isn’t fucking happening,” I snap.
Rory shifts closer to Aoife, reaching for her arm like he’s about to play groom and leash in one, but she tries to step away from him, it’s not happening, as Rory pulls her harder.
I raise my gun, point it right between his fucking eyes, and he freezes.
“You lay one hand on her, and I’ll kill you the second you step outside.” There’s a beat of silence so thick I feel it pressing against my lungs.
Then… Gunfire. Chaos.
The first shot doesn’t come from me.
It comes from them. The O’Briens.
So much for sacred fucking ground.
Marble cracks. Candles shatter. Screams echo off the vaulted ceiling.
I duck to the side, pushing Marco down behind a pew as bullets slice past us. Nico already has one of theirs on the ground, a blade drawn from God-knows-where, red dripping down the hilt.
I know he won’t kill anyone in here, but he will make sure they can’t move after he’s finished with them.
Aoife’s screaming.
I see her fall, not shot, but dragged down behind the altar by Conor. No. Not again, they won’t take her again, I just fucking found her.
I rise, fire once, not to kill, but to clear a path, because I meant what I said. There are things I’ll do, and there are things I won’t.
I won’t desecrate a church.
Nico grabs my arm and shouts, “We split up now. Marco, Milo, you take the left flank. We get her out clean.”
“I’m not leaving without her,” I growl.
“She’s your mission,” Nico says, voice like stone. “We’ve got the rest.”
I sprint toward the altar, dodging overturned pews and people diving for cover. Rory is crouched behind the lectern, sleeve stained with someone else’s blood a small, cowardly trophy. I stop over him, calm as a guillotine, and let the silence do the work: his hands touch what’s mine, and he will pay.
