The chapel doors were locked from the inside, and every man guarding them worked for the groom. My father stood beside me in the aisle, squeezing my wrist hard enough to bruise,

Two nights later, an unmarked black sedan crept slowly down the winding private driveway of Luca’s estate, its headlights turned off, gliding through the darkness like a predatory cat.

Inside the car sat Marcus Vance—a legendary hitman flown in directly from the Chicago syndicate, carrying a silenced automatic weapon and a reputation for never missing a target.

He parked near the edge of the wooded treeline, cutting the engine. He stepped out into the damp night air, moving silently across the manicured lawn toward the rear terrace of the mansion.

The glass doors to the study were unlocked.

Marcus smiled to himself, raising his weapon as he slipped quietly across the threshold into the dark, silent room.

“Too easy,” he whispered.

He stepped toward the heavy mahogany desk, raising his gun to fire into the shadows of the seating area—when every overhead light in the room suddenly clicked on with a blinding flash.

Marcus blinked against the sudden glare, lowering his weapon slightly.

Sitting behind the desk wasn't a terrified girl in a wedding dress.

I sat there, legs crossed, holding a cup of black coffee, my expression completely serene.

Standing behind me in the shadows was Luca Moretti, alongside four armed tactical guards blocking every possible exit out of the room.

Marcus froze, his eyes darting frantically toward the door. “What is this?”

“This is the end of your trip, Mr. Vance,” I said smoothly, taking a calm sip of my coffee.

Marcus snarled, raising his silenced pistol toward my chest—but before his finger could even touch the trigger, a heavy tactical boot swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing hard onto the hardwood floor.

Luca stepped forward, pressing the heel of his shoe firmly against Marcus’s windpipe, pinning him to the ground while kicking the dropped pistol away across the room.

“You tell your bosses in Chicago,” Luca said, his voice dropping into a dark, lethal register that echoed off the stone walls, “that New York belongs to us. And if they ever send another rat into my house, I’ll mail their body parts back in a postal box.”

Marcus wheezed, gasping for air against Luca’s boot. “P-Please... mercy...”

“Mercy is what I gave Damian before he tried to ruin my life,” I said, standing up from my desk and walking slowly over to look down at the pinned assassin. “You get a one-way ticket back to Chicago in a wooden crate with a message attached.”