15. Vows Under Threat
Vows Under Threat
Vera
Ialways imagined my wedding would smell like lilies.
Not gun oil.
The cathedral is older than both our families’ grudges—stone arches carved with saints who look down in permanent judgment. But tonight it’s been refitted with velvet ropes, metal detectors, men with earpieces, and tension thick enough to choke on.
Candles flicker against stained glass.
Armed guards line the perimeter between pews.
Security isn’t subtle.
Neither is fear.
I stand in a side chamber as someone adjusts the fall of my veil. The dress is ivory—not soft, not romantic. Structured. Regal. A silhouette designed to command space.
Armor in silk.
“You look like a queen,” Sister Marisol murmurs quietly beside me.
“I feel like a bargaining chip,” I answer.
Her eyes soften.
“Queens are often both.”
The doors beyond us open.
Music swells—organ notes deep and reverent.
My father waits halfway down the aisle.
He looks older tonight.
Silver hair sharper against the candlelight. Jaw tight. Smile absent.
For a moment, I forget the sniper. The money trails. The suspicion that might be crawling inside our own blood.
For a moment, he’s just my father.
He offers his arm.
“Are you certain?” he asks under his breath.
“No,” I whisper.
“Good,” he says quietly. “Certainty is dangerous.”
We walk.
Every step echoes against stone.
Eyes follow me—not admiring, not sentimental.
Calculating.
Rival captains.
Koval loyalists.
Bellini allies.
They watch like this is a treaty signing disguised as matrimony.
At the altar stands Roman.
Black suit. Impeccable.
Unshaken.
His gaze locks on mine the moment I enter the aisle.
Possession.
Promise.
And something else tonight.
Alertness.
As if he expects the cathedral itself to turn against us.
I walk toward him like a queen in a cage.
Head high.
Spine straight.
The ring already heavy on my finger.
When I reach him, my father places my hand in Roman’s.
The transfer feels symbolic in a way I refuse to acknowledge.
Roman’s fingers close around mine—warm, steady.
He doesn’t squeeze.
He anchors.
The officiant begins.
Words about union. About strength. About binding houses.
They sound older than truth.
I barely hear them.
All I hear is the low murmur of armed men shifting weight.
The creak of leather holsters.
The faint static of hidden radios.
This is not a wedding.
It’s a fortified declaration.
Roman’s thumb brushes lightly over my knuckles.
Not possessive.
Reassuring.
I hate that it works.
“Do you, Roman Koval,” the officiant says, voice echoing upward into vaulted ceilings, “take Vera Bellini to be your lawfully wedded—”
A murmur ripples through the back pews.
Sharp.
Wrong.
A man in a dark suit rushes down the side aisle toward Viktor.
He doesn’t shout.
He whispers.
Viktor’s posture changes instantly.
Roman’s eyes flicker toward him.
The organ falters.
The officiant stumbles mid-sentence.
The whisper travels faster than sound.
Bomb threat.
It moves like a wave.
Not screaming.
Not yet.
But sharp enough to fracture composure.
I feel it before I fully understand it.
The air shifts.
Fear has a temperature.
It drops suddenly.
Roman doesn’t release my hand.
He leans slightly toward Viktor without turning his head.
“Credible?” he murmurs.
“Anonymous call,” Viktor replies tightly. “Timed. Claims device inside.”
My pulse pounds against my throat.
Inside.
The cathedral.
My father stiffens two rows behind us.
People begin to rise in the pews.
Whispers sharpen.
Panic edges closer.
“Stay calm,” Roman says quietly to me.
“I am,” I lie.
His grip tightens just enough to remind me he’s still here.
The officiant clears his throat, attempting to resume.
“Do you—”
The lights cut out.
Instantly.
Total darkness swallows the cathedral.
Gasps explode.
Someone screams.
The organ dies mid-note.
In the blackness, every sound amplifies—footsteps scrambling, fabric rustling, metal shifting in holsters.
My heart slams so hard it feels audible.
Roman’s hand clamps firmly around mine.
“Down,” he orders, voice low and lethal.
And somewhere in the darkness—
Something clicks.