Page 7

I freeze.

The vibration is coming from the far end of the dining table, near the head, where the owner of the house would usually sit.

Sofia gives a low, muffled woof and trots toward the sound. I slide out of my chair, trailing my fingertips along the polished mahogany edge until I reach the far side. My fingers pat down the smooth surface until they hit the cold, sleek rectangle of a phone.

It isn't a touchscreen smartphone. It's a burner phone, small, textured, and buzzing relentlessly against the wood.

My heart leaps into my throat. Did Romeo forget it? Or did someone leave it behind?

With shaking hands, I press the tactile button on the center of the keypad and lift the phone to my ear.

"Hello?" I whisper, my pulse hammering behind my eyes.

"Iris?"

A rough, thick Irish accent crackles through the speaker, breathless and strained.

"Jamie?" I gasp, gripping the phone so tightly that the plastic groans in my palm. "Jamie, is that you? Oh God, Jamie!"

"Iris, listen to me very carefully," my brother rasps, his voice ragged, accompanied by the muffled roar of wind and what sounds like an engine rumbling in the background. "I don't have much time. This line burns in two minutes."

"Where are you? What is happening?" Tears flood my eyes, soaking into the silk ribbon. "Romeo brought me to Sicily. He says we're married, Jamie! He said Danny sold me to him three years ago in the hospital!"

A bitter, venomous curse leaves Jamie's mouth over the static.

"The bastard," Jamie spits out. "I knew Danny was hiding something before he died inside that bottle. Iris, listen to me. Romeo taking you out of the country wasn't just about his sick obsession. It's about survival."

I furrow my brows, leaning my hip against the table. "What are you talking about?"

"The bishop's men," Jamie says, his tone dead serious, sending a cold spike of dread straight into my gut. "The Irish Catholic syndicate back home. We thought we wiped them all out the night Romeo kicked in the cathedral doors, but the threat is bigger than just New York. The faction from Edinburgh has mobilized. They know Danny signed you over to the Messinas, and they know Romeo put a bullet in the bishop's head.

My breath hitches. The nightmare from the plane, the memory of that gleaming silver knife carving a cross into my stomach, flashes across my mind with blinding terror.

"They want retaliation," I whisper, my voice cracking.

"They want your head on a platter, Iris," Jamie warns grimly. "They view you as an unholy offering that slipped away. They've allied with Victor and the Russian Bratva. They're tracking Messina assets across Europe right now. Do not trust anyone around you, do you hear me? Not Romeo, not his cousins, not anybody."

"Jamie, where are you going?" Panic grips my chest, tight and suffocating. "Are you coming for me?"

"I'm heading north to Inverness to cut the head off the snake before they can reach the Mediterranean," Jamie says, his voice cutting out with static. "I promised you on that hospital bed that you'd never have to fear the church again, and I'm keeping my fucking word. Stay alive, little sister. Do not let Romeo break your spirit."

"Jamie, wait..."

The line goes dead with a harsh, synthetic beep.

I lower the phone from my ear, staring blindly into the darkness of the room as cold sweat trickles down my spine.

The church is coming. Victor is coming.

And I am trapped in a Sicilian fortress with the very monster who started the fire by pouring gasoline on it.

A heavy shadow blocks the sunlight pouring through the arched windows, and the faint, unmistakable aroma of cedar and tobacco drifts across the room.

"Jamie's voice is still in my ear when the line dies. I stand in a stranger's dining room with a dead phone and a living husband behind me, and I understand the shape of the next year in one ugly flash.

The church is not done. Victor is not done. Romeo will make a war out of both, and I will be in the middle of it wearing his ring, whether I bless it or not.

I set the phone on the table instead of throwing it. Breaking his things is easy. Surviving him takes more than temper.