Chapter 34
The warehouse is silent except for the rustle of maps and the hushed drone of planning voices.
We're tucked into the deepest wing of my most secure storage facility—an old shipping dock we converted years ago to be impenetrable from both bullets and surveillance.
No one gets in without me knowing. Not Kavanagh eyes. Not a rat with a death wish.
The past twenty-four hours have led us here. Lachlan’s guard led us to a business associate. That man, after losing three toes, finally handed over his invitation. The invitation led us to St. Bellamy’s Cathedral. The unassuming church that will become a battlefield this evening.
My men gather around the reinforced steel table.
The air is thick with tension, loyalty, and the weight of what’s about to happen.
Lars stands to my right, a quiet shadow with fury burning under his calm exterior.
Every soldier here was handpicked for tonight.
Trusted. Vetted. Dead men walking if they fuck this up.
I let the silence hold for a moment longer before repeating the steps we’ve been going over for the past twelve hours. “Here’s the objective: we hit St. Bellamy’s just before the vows. No ceremony. No rings. No fucking wedding.”
A few smirks flicker around the room, but no one dares to laugh.
“The team splits into three,” I continue. “Dom, Phil, and Emilio—take the south entrance. You’ll deal with the security detail Anthony Falco brought in. No words. No warnings. Take them out.”
They nod grimly.
“Cormac, Andy, you handle crowd control. Contain the guests. Make sure no one tries to play the hero.”
“Yes, boss.”
I look to the last crew, my most brutal enforcers. “Stefano, Lars, and Santino—you’re with me. We go in through the cathedral’s service entrance. Once inside, we cut straight up the east corridor to the sanctuary. Zara is the priority. I don’t care if the roof caves in—she comes out alive.”
I lean forward, hands pressed flat to the table. “Falco is expendable. If you get a clean shot, take it. But Lachlan stays breathing.”
Dom raises a brow. “You’re sure you don’t want to take him out while we have the chance?”
I level him with a stare that could cleave stone. “Lachlan is mine.”
They understand.
“Listen carefully,” I add, letting my voice cut through the tension like a blade. “If anything happens to Zara—if she’s even scratched—every single one of you pays. Not just in blood. Your families. Your homes. Your names. I will make your bloodlines ghosts.”
A pulse of dread moves through the room. This isn’t bravado. This is my fucking truth.
Lars steps up, arms crossed, calm as ever. “Everyone here knows the stakes. You’ve all sworn oaths. But if you’ve got doubts, speak now and walk away with your life.”
No one moves.
“Good,” I say. “Load up.”
Outside, the SUV is already running, matte black with armored plating and bulletproof glass. The convoy behind us is identical—three more vehicles, identical in build, meant to confuse anyone tailing us. I slide into the backseat, Lars beside me, his rifle in his lap.
As we pull away from the docks, the convoy in motion, Lars watches me for a long beat.
“You good?” he asks.
I adjust the holster at my side. “I’ve never been clearer.”
“You’re about to crash a wedding.”
“I’m about to save my future.”
He grins smugly. “The tux is a nice touch.”
“It’s my wedding day, it seemed appropriate.”
He shakes his head but doesn’t argue. “You’re sure this priest will do it? Marry you on the spot?”
“He’s already been paid. Generously.”
I pull out my phone and dial Rowan.
“Yeah?”
“Is the priest in position?”
“He’s at your penthouse. I’ve made sure the room is set and secure. Flowers, paperwork, everything you asked for.”
“Good. He doesn’t leave until we return. Understood?”
“Yes, boss.”
I end the call and slide the phone back into my jacket.
“Jesus,” Lars shakes his head beside me. “You’re really gonna marry her tonight.”
“I told you,” I say, eyes locked on the skyline ahead. “She’s mine.”
And by the time this night is over, every single person who tried to take her from me will learn what it means to steal from a Marchetti.
The cathedral looms like a tomb carved from stone, towering and cold against the setting sun. St. Bellamy’s has always been a symbol in this city—of sanctity, tradition, power. Tonight, it becomes a battlefield.
The convoy slows three blocks out. The streets are blocked with wedding guests, security, and Falco muscle in black suits that don't quite mask their true purpose. We park in a narrow alley behind the service entrance. Dom kills the engine, and we move quickly, each man trained and ready.
Before Lars and I are even out of the SUV, I hear the whisper of silenced gunfire—quick, precise. When my boots hit the pavement, the guards who were standing at the service entrance are already down, their bodies crumpled in the shadows, blood seeping into the cracks of the concrete.
“Check comms,” Lars says quietly, earpiece already snug in place.
A chorus of clicks and affirmatives echoes in our ears.
I step out into the chill, air sharp with humidity and tension. The cathedral bells start tolling in the distance, marking the hour. Seven. My lucky number.
Through the comms, Dom’s voice crackles. “South entrance clear.”
Cormac follows. “Crowd control in place. We’ll keep the civilians under control once you’re inside.”
Lars checks his watch. “We’re on schedule.”
The service door is locked—standard bolt—but Stefano has it picked in seconds. We slip inside, weapons concealed under jackets, nerves locked down tight. The hall is dim, a narrow passage once meant for clergy, now commandeered by men with guns.
A whisper of incense lingers in the air, mixing with dust and age-old secrets. I push forward, eyes sharp, body taut.
Zara’s here. I can feel it in my bones. She’s close.
And I swear to every god that’s ever ruled—nothing will stop me from reaching her.
Lars lifts two fingers, signaling the left corner up ahead. “The sanctuary should be straight through the next arch.”
We pause just short of it. I raise a fist. The men fall into place behind me, breath quiet, eyes locked.
This is it. “On my mark,” I say.
And then I move. Through the arch. Into the sanctuary.
Straight toward the altar. Toward her. Toward war.