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"Messina!" the priest screams, his voice cracking as his barrel sweeps toward us. "You will burn in hell for this sacrilege! This church was consecrated before your father was a sperm in the gutter!"

"Sacrilege?" I laugh, a cold, mocking sound that bounces off the arched stone nave.

I step forward, letting Iris walk right beside me, our boots tracking bloody footprints down the red carpet aisle.

"You broke the rules of Questa Nostra Cosa, Donald," I state evenly, leveling both of my Berettas at his chest. "You touched a Don's family. You tried to slaughter Danny O'Connor like a dog, and you put a bounty on the head of my Donna."

Donald sneers, his pale eyes flickering down to Iris's scarred face. "That blind whore was promised to the flock twenty years ago. Her father had no right to hand her over to Italian dogs!"

The word barely clears his mouth before two things happen simultaneously.

Sofia launches from Iris's side with a vicious snarl, crossing the marble steps of the altar in two massive bounds. Her jaws clamp shut around Donald's right wrist, the heavy rifle dropping with a loud clatter to the stone.

Donald shrieks in agony as Sofia drags him down to his knees.

I holster my left gun, step up the altar steps, and place the heavy sole of my boot onto Donald's chest, pinning him flat against the marble.

I pull the ceremonial hunting knife from the sheath inside my jacket, the blade gleaming like liquid mercury in the candlelight, and look down at Iris.

"He's yours, Donna Messina," I say, holding the hilt out toward her waiting palm. "Tell me how you want him buried."

TWENTY-THREE

IRIS

The cold steel of the ceremonial hunting knife gleams like liquid silver in the flickering candlelight.

It feels heavy in my trembling hand, the hilt warm from Romeo's grip. Father Donald, the head of the Scottish council, whimpers beneath Romeo's boot, his eyes wide and terrified as he stares up at the blade, his jowls trembling like a cornered animal.

"He's yours, Donna Messina." Romeo's voice is a low, dark rumble, vibrating through the silence of the chapel. "Tell me how you want him buried."

My heart pounds too hard against my ribs. The scent of old frankincense, burning wax, and raw fear chokes the air around us, thick and suffocating. Behind me, the remaining council members are cowering, their faces pale with terror, their hands still clutching their bags of dirty money and their rosaries.

I stare down at the man who ordered the hit on my father. The man who orchestrated my years of torment, who saw me as nothing more than to be collected, a vessel to be broken, an offering to cleanse an old debt.

The rage I thought had crumbled in the hospital room ignites again, pure and burning in my veins. It is not the wild, uncontrolled fury of being stored in the darkness so many years, but a cold, calculated fire that settles deep in my bones, hardening my resolve into something sharp and lethal.

“I was promised to the flock, was I?" I whisper, my voice razor sharp, cutting through the horrified silence of the chapel. "A vessel to be emptied before it could be filled."

Father Donald lets out a strangled gasp, his body thrashing violently beneath Romeo's boot, his terrified eyes darting frantically between Romeo and me. He tries to speak, but only a wet gurgle escapes his mangled throat.

"The Bishop said those words to me once," I continue, my voice gaining strength, each word precise and deliberate, chillingly calm. "While I was tied to a cross in a freezing cold church in South Boston. He said my father, Daniel O'Connor, understood the calculus of survival. He said I was merely paying the interest on an ancient debt."

I kneel down, bringing the tip of the gleaming blade right to Father Donald's throat. He stills instantly, his breath hitching, his eyes wide with desperate terror. The reek of his fear is overpowering, mixing with the incense and blood.

"You wanted my blood, didn't you?" I ask, my lips pulling back in a feral snarl. "You wanted to break me. To turn me into a weapon for your sick empire. You wanted to make me scream."

I press the tip of the knife into his flesh, just enough to break the skin. A bead of dark red blood wells up, tracing a path down his jowly throat. He whines like a dog, his body trembling uncontrollably, a pathetic, muffled sound that is music to my ears.

"The rules of Questa Nostra Cosa have changed, Father," I say, my voice dripping with venom, each word a cold, slow drop of poison. "You underestimated the queen you tried to break but never had."

I look up at Romeo, his silhouette dark and powerful behind me. His eyes are burning, filled with a primal, possessive fire that makes my stomach clench with a mix of fear and power. He gives me a subtle nod, his jaw tight, giving me permission to do what must be done.

"This isn't about revenge, Romeo," I tell him, my voice steady, my gaze hard and unwavering. "This is about showing them what happens when they touch what is ours. It's about balance."

I turn back to Father Donald, my gaze hard and unyielding. "I want to send a message. I want every single member of your Scottish syndicate—every priest, every corrupt bishop— to understand the price of defiance. I want them to know that the O'Connor blood runs through Messina veins now, and it is thirsty."

With a slow, deliberate movement, I twist the knife.