Chapter 3 Camilla
The world turns to chaos in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
The massive cathedral doors implode inward with a sound like thunder, ancient wood splintering into deadly fragments. Screams pierce the air as guests dive for cover behind pews, their designer clothes suddenly meaningless against the violence flooding into our sanctuary.
Men in black tactical gear pour through the breach like a dark tide, automatic weapons raised. Their faces are hidden behind masks, but their intent is crystal clear in every controlled movement.
"Nobody move!" The calm voice cuts through the pandemonium. "This is not about you. Stay down and you won't be harmed."
I stand frozen at the altar, my wedding dress suddenly feeling ten pounds heavier.
Lorenzo's hand on mine has gone slack, and when I turn to look at him, his face is bone-white with terror.
Behind us, Father Giuseppe backs away from the altar, his hands raised in prayer or surrender. I can't tell which.
Papa pushes forward from his seat in the front row, but one of the masked men trains his weapon on him instantly. "Sit down, old man. This isn't your show anymore."
This can't be happening.
This can't be real.
Wedding day nightmares are supposed to involve dropping the ring or forgetting vows, not armed men turning a cathedral into a war zone.
But then I see him.
He walks through the chaos like an avenging angel.
Like the screaming guests and splintered wood and broken stained glass are all part of his personal kingdom.
Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the kind of fluid confidence that comes from absolute certainty.
He's not wearing a mask like his men. He wants us to see his face, wants us to know exactly who's destroying our perfect day.
He's deadly handsome with dark hair and eyes, wearing a dark suit. When his gaze finds mine across the wreckage of my wedding, something cold and predatory flickers in those depths.
"Lorenzo Rossi," he says, his voice carrying easily through the cathedral despite the chaos. “You've been avoiding my calls."
Lorenzo's grip on my hand tightens painfully. "This is a house of God," he stammers. "You can't—"
"I can do whatever I want." The man in charge steps closer, and I see the exact moment he dismisses Lorenzo entirely and focuses on me. "Especially when I'm collecting what's owed."
His eyes travel over me slowly, deliberately. The wedding dress, the veil, the terror that must be written across my face. Then his lips curve into something that might generously be called a smile.
"She's even more beautiful than the photos," he observes, speaking to Lorenzo but never looking away from me. "I can see why you were eager to close this particular deal."
"Please," Lorenzo whispers, and the desperation in his voice tells me everything I need to know. This isn't random. This is personal. This is about money, or territory, or some other currency in the world of men who solve problems with violence.
"Please what?" The stranger's voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "Please don't take back what you stole from me? Please don't collect on your family's debts?"
He steps onto the altar platform, close enough to see the thin scar that bisects his left eyebrow.
"You borrowed two million euros from my organization six months ago," he continues conversationally, like we're discussing the weather instead of standing in the wreckage of my wedding. "Money you used to expand your shipping operation. Money you apparently forgot to pay back."
"We have cash flow issues—" Lorenzo starts.
"No, you have honesty issues." The man's voice turns sharp. "But don't worry. I'm here to solve your problem."
His hand moves fast, gripping my chin and forcing me to meet his gaze. His fingers are warm against my skin, but the touch feels like a brand.
"Your debt is now three times the original amount," he tells Lorenzo without breaking eye contact with me. "Call it interest for making me come collect personally. My time and efforts are worth the extra."
"Six million?" Lorenzo's voice cracks. "That's impossible. We don't have it!"
"Then you'll find it." The stranger's thumb brushes across my lower lip, and I can't take my eyes off his. "Because if you don't, your pretty new bride becomes collateral. And I have very creative ways of liquidating assets."
The threat hangs in the air like the scent of the white roses, now heavy and suffocating. Around us, the cathedral has gone silent except for muffled sobs and the distant wail of sirens.
Help is coming, but I can see in this man's eyes that it won't matter. He'll be gone long before the police arrive, and he'll be taking me with him.
"You have forty-eight hours," he announces, finally releasing my chin. "Transfer the money to the account my associate will provide. If you're even one euro short, your bride starts her new career in my employment."
"What kind of employment?" I whisper, though every instinct screams not to draw his attention.
His smiles at me. "The kind that pays very well for very specific services."
Human trafficking.
He's talking about human trafficking, standing in a cathedral, discussing my sale like I'm livestock.
"She's innocent," Papa calls out desperately from the congregation. "She has nothing to do with this business. Take Lorenzo instead."
"Innocent?" The stranger laughs without humor. "She's about to marry into the family that stole from me. That makes her an accessory to the crime. There are no innocents in this chapel."
Two of his men move forward, flanking me. I look desperately at Lorenzo, waiting for him to do something. Fight, negotiate, promise the money. Anything.
Instead, he steps backward.
The bastard actually steps away from me, his face pale with calculation. I see the exact moment he decides I'm not worth six million euros. The moment he chooses his family's money over his future wife.
The man holding me lifts an eyebrow at him.
"Take her," Lorenzo says quietly.
My own husband-to-be, the man who was supposed to protect and cherish me, just handed me over to criminals like I'm a business expense on a ledger he can write off.
"No! Lorenzo!" I scream his name, but he won't meet my eyes.
"Interesting," the stranger murmurs. "He’s learning how to prioritize."
Strong hands grip my arms, lifting me off my feet when my legs refuse to support me. The cathedral spins around me as they carry me toward the shattered doors, past the wreckage of my wedding, past the guests who watch in horrified silence.
"Forty-eight hours, Rossi," the stranger calls over his shoulder as we reach the entrance. "And remember, if you try to involve the police, if you try to track us, if you even think about being clever... the price doubles."
The last thing I see before they push me into a waiting SUV is Papa's anguished face and Lorenzo's pale cowardice.
And the last thing I hear is the stranger's voice, soft and deadly. "Welcome to your new life, principessa."
The doors slam shut, the engine roars to life, and my old world disappears behind tinted glass and the sound of my own terrified breathing.
Whatever happens next, I know with absolute certainty that the girl who walked down that aisle is already dead.
The woman they've taken in her place is someone else entirely.
Someone who now belongs to the man with dark eyes and darker intentions.