Fallen (The Marchetti Dynasty #1)

Prologue

The priest clears his throat.

The gunshots start before he speaks.

Not one or two—it’s a goddamn hailstorm. Screams rip through the pews. Heels clatter against marble. Someone knocks over a floral pedestal. The organist slumps forward onto the keys, letting out one last awful chord.

My veil is yanked back by the sudden gust as the cathedral doors explode inward, and a black-clad battalion storms in, armed and organized. Controlled violence.

Gasps, cries, a woman shrieking somewhere near the back.

I don’t scream.

I don’t move.

I stand frozen in the center aisle, hands still wrapped tight around my bouquet like it’s a weapon and not a pathetic bundle of roses.

I’d been prepared to marry a monster.

I’d shoved myself into this lace coffin, let them pin me into place and promise me away, just to keep the peace. Simply to stay alive.

But when the bullets start flying, I realize something I hadn’t been willing to admit, not even to myself.

I’d rather die than give myself to Anthony Falco.

A body drops near me, blood staining a powder-blue tux. Not Anthony. Unfortunately. That coward ran the moment the first shot rang out, vanishing into the vestry like the spineless rat he is.

I turn, twisting on instinct as arms wrap around my shoulders, my bouquet falling to the marble floor.

Hands, rough and strong, yank me back. I twist, kick, my heel connects with someone’s shin. A grunt. I try again, but this time a hand clamps over my mouth, and thick arms hold me tighter.

Then, a voice comes from behind me. Calm. Deep. Almost familiar.

“Don’t fight it, relax. You’re not meant for him.”

A hood drops over my head.