Chapter 2 - Blood on the AltarThe chapel of San Michele sat perched on a rocky outcrop three hundred yards behind the main estate, connected by an ancient stone path lined with cypress trees that hissed in the rising alpine wind. There were no guests. No cheering crowds of family members, no bridesmaids adjusting veils, and no cheerful organ music echoing off the vaulted ceilings.
There was only Father Thomas, an elderly priest whose hands shook as he held the leather-bound missal, and Marco standing by the heavy oak doors with his hand resting casually inside his jacket, right over the grip of a silenced Beretta.
I wore a simple ivory dress I had bought off the rack in a panic at Logan Airport, the hem slightly scuffed from the gravel driveway. Luca stood beside me at the altar, looking like a statue carved from granite. Every time I moved, even just to shift my weight from one foot to the other, I could feel the intense, rigid control he was exerting over his own body, as if he were terrified that if he touched me by accident, I would shatter like cheap glass.
“Dearly beloved,” Father Thomas began, his voice trembling slightly in the drafty, candle-lit sanctuary. He rushed through the Latin phrases, eager to finish a ceremony that felt less like a holy union and more like a hostage exchange.
When it came time for the rings, Luca reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy platinum band encrusted with dark sapphires. His fingers were broad, scarred across the knuckles, bearing the undeniable marks of a man who lived by the blade and the bullet. As he took my hand, his grip was so gentle it defied his massive stature. He slid the ring onto my finger with meticulous care, his thumb brushing against my pulse point. I could feel his skin trembling—just a fraction, a micro-tremor of sheer disbelief.
“And do you, Luca Moretti, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to protect her through sickness and health, through war and peace, until death do you part?” Father Thomas asked.
Luca didn't look at the priest. His eyes were locked on mine, dark and impenetrable.
“I do,” he said, his deep voice rolling through the empty chapel like distant thunder.
“And do you, Sophia Bennett—”
Before the priest could finish the sentence, a deafening crash shattered the silence.
The heavy oak doors of the chapel blew inward, splintering iron hinges and showering the stone floor with shards of ancient wood. Through the choking cloud of dust and mountain fog, three figures stepped into the sanctuary, dressed in tactical black gear, their faces obscured by reinforced Kevlar masks.
In the center stood a man holding a short-barreled tactical shotgun, its barrel gleaming wickedly under the candlelight.
“Well, well, well,” a cold, gravelly voice echoed through the vaulted arches. Viktor Vance. My father's former business partner—and the man who had ordered the hit on the Baltimore docks a decade ago. “The great Luca Moretti, marrying a baker. How domestic. Too bad the honeymoon is cancelled.”
Marco drew his weapon instantly, but before he could squeeze the trigger, a second intruder dropped from the high clerestory window behind the altar, slamming the butt of a combat knife against Marco’s shoulder and sending him crashing into the baptismal font.
Luca didn't flinch. In a fraction of a second that defied his massive bulk, he moved with terrifying, predatory speed. He stepped in front of me, his body acting as a living shield just as Viktor raised the shotgun.
“Get down!” Luca roared, his arm wrapping around my waist and hurling me behind the stone altar as a deafening blast shattered the stained-glass window above us, raining colored glass like deadly confetti across the pews.
The chapel erupted into chaos. Gunfire echoed off the stone walls, deafening and brutal, smelling instantly of cordite and burning wax. I huddled behind the heavy stone barrier, my hands clamped over my ears, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Through a gap in the stone pillars, I saw Luca move.
He didn't use a gun. He charged like a wounded bear, closing the distance between himself and the nearest intruder before the man could pump another shell into his weapon. Luca’s massive hand closed around the operative's throat, lifting the grown man clear off the floor with one arm as if he weighed nothing at all, and slammed him spine-first against the marble pillar with a sickening crunch.
“Luca!” I screamed, terrified not for myself, but for the man who had just promised to protect me.
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Viktor Vance stepped over the fallen operative, his shotgun leveled directly at the gap in the altar where I was hiding. A cruel, jagged smile twisted his scarred lips beneath his half-mask.
“Come out, little baker,” Viktor mocked, cocking the weapon. “Let’s see if your new husband can catch a slug before it reaches your heart.”
