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"You stay behind me when we breach the chapel, Iris," I say, my voice a low rumble that leaves no room for debate. "Sofia stays glued to your leg. You shoot anything that speaks with a Scottish accent and wears a silver collar. Am I clear?"

Iris turns her head toward me. Her cloudy green eyes, clouded with scar tissue yet burning with lethal focus, lock onto mine.

"I told you in Capri, Romeo," she whispers, her tone colder than the rain outside as a cruel smirk slides across her red, strained lips. "I am not your doll to tuck into a pocket. Danny asked me to rule them all before he closed his eyes. I intend to make good on that promise."

A dark grin spreads across my mouth. I reach out, taking her chin between my thumb and forefinger, pulling her face close enough to taste the vanilla on her lips.

"You're going to be the death of me, Kitten," I growl reverently, pressing a hard kiss to her mouth, letting my teeth graze her lower lip until she gives a soft, hungry gasp against my tongue. "And God help the bastards who try to stand between you and your throne."

The SUV skids to a halt on the gravel courtyard.

Behind us, four black Suburbans brake in unison, their doors flying open to disgorge twenty Messina soldiers in full tactical gear, accompanied by Jamie O'Connor and six of his most vicious Irish enforcers.

The heavy iron doors of the monastery courtyard are already chained shut.

"Take the gates," I command into my earpiece.

Tony slams a breaching charge against the rusted iron hinges. Two seconds later, the night explodes in a concussive blast of orange fire and flying metal. The shockwave rattles the trees, scattering wet pine needles across our vehicle hoods.

"Move!" I bark, kicking my door open and drawing my twin custom Berettas from my shoulder holsters.

The rain lashes my face, plastering my hair to my forehead as we breach the smoking courtyard. Automatic gunfire erupts instantly from the second-story balconies of the monastery, muzzle flashes stroking the dark in violent bursts.

Bullets spark against the stone pavers around my boots.

I don't duck. I raise my right arm, sighting the muzzle flashes in the rain, and squeeze the trigger three times in rapid succession. The heavy thud of a body falling from the balcony follows immediately, crashing onto the gravel with a sickening crunch of broken bones.

Beside me, Jamie steps up with an automatic shotgun, pumping round after round into the lower windows until glass shatters and screams echo from inside the vestibule.

"Clear the front!" Jamie roars, his red beard drenched with rain, his face twisted in savage bloodlust. "Leave the council in the altar room for Iris!"

"Tony, take the left corridor!" I shout, grabbing Iris by her elbow to keep her centered behind my broad frame as we storm the heavy oak double doors of the main sanctuary with her fist clenched onto my belt.

Sofia leads the way with a furious, blood-curdling bark, darting through the splintered doorway like a black missile. A scream tears through the foyer as Sofia takes a guard down by the forearm, the sickening sound of tearing fabric and crushing bone echoing off the vaulted stone ceiling.

A shooter steps out from behind a marble pillar, raising an Uzi directly toward Iris's chest.

Before I can swing my weapon around, a sharp, deafening crack explodes right beside my ear.

Iris has her Glock raised in one hand right over my shoulder. She didn't flinch. Guided by the sound of the guard's boots scraping marble, she squeezed off two double-taps straight toward the pillar.

The first bullet catches the shooter in the shoulder. The second tears clean through his throat.

The man gurgles, collapsing against the pillar as a thick spray of dark blood coats the white stone behind him.

I pause for half a second, staring at my wife in disbelief and raw pride. And, not so surprisingly, desire. That was fucking beautiful.

She lowers the smoking barrel, her chest heaving, the faint scent of cordite mingling with her perfume.

"I told you my hearing was better than yours," she murmurs with a savage little smirk.

"Fucking glorious," I purr, wrapping my arm around her waist to pull her through the final set of brass doors leading into the grand nave.

The chapel smells of old frankincense, burning wax, and pure terror. Perfect, it gets my adrenaline pumping.

Inside, huddled beneath a massive gilded crucifix on the elevated altar, four elderly men in purple and black clergy robes are shivering in the flickering light of overturned candelabras. They aren't holy men; their eyes are wild with greed, their hands trembling over opened ledgers and duffel bags stuffed with cash and burner cellphones.

Standing in front of them with an assault rifle is Father Donald, the head of the Scottish council who authorized the hit on Danny.