Chapter 6 - The Wedding ShowdownSaturday afternoon arrived with brilliant, crisp autumn sunshine that mocked the violence brewing beneath the surface of the city.
The wedding of my sister, Claire, was held at the historic Chicago Cultural Center, followed by a lavish reception in the grand ballroom of the Drake Hotel.
When our black armored Cadillac pulled up to the red carpet outside the Drake, the paparazzi flashed their cameras furiously, expecting some high-profile politician or Hollywood star. Instead, the door swung open, and Ethan Callahan stepped out first, extending his hand to help me down.
I wore a stunning emerald-green silk gown that Fiona Sterling—Ethan’s legal counsel and secret stylist—had had custom-fitted for me overnight. My hair was swept up in elegant waves, and I carried Sophie in a matching lace dress.
Gasps rippled through the crowd of reporters and guests.
“Isn’t that Ethan Callahan?!”
“Who is the woman with him? Is that the mystery mother from O’Hare?!”
Ethan kept his hand securely resting on the small of my back, guiding me past the flashing cameras with the absolute authority of a king walking with his queen.
Inside the grand ballroom, the atmosphere was thick with tension. My sister, Claire, stood near the head table in her white lace wedding gown, her face pale and terrified as she saw who was walking through the doors. Beside her stood her new husband, Mark—the man who owed two hundred thousand dollars to the Outfit.
Mark practically sprinted across the polished marble floor toward us, his hands trembling.
“Mr. Callahan!” Mark stammered, sweating profusely under his tuxedo collar. “I swear to God, the money will be wired by Monday! Please, don't do anything to Claire or our family—!”
Ethan stopped walking, his gaze dropping to Mark with chilling detachment.
“Relax, Mark,” Ethan said smoothly, his voice carrying clearly across the silent ballroom. “I’m not here to collect a debt today. I’m here as a guest of honor... accompanying my fiancée’s sister.”
The entire ballroom went dead silent.
Claire’s jaw dropped. She looked from Ethan to me, her eyes wide as saucers. “Rachel...? What is going on? Who is this man?!”
Before I could answer, a commotion broke out near the service doors at the back of the hall. Three men in cheap suits—the remnants of the north-side syndicate faction that had attacked the South Loop safehouse two nights ago—pushed past the catering staff, pulling concealed handguns from beneath their jackets.
“Callahan!” the lead thug roared, raising his weapon. “End of the line!”
Chaos erupted. Guests screamed, diving under tables and scrambling toward the exits.
I froze, terror gripping my chest as I held Sophie tight.
In a fraction of a second, Ethan moved. With terrifying, lethal speed, he shoved me behind a marble pillar, drew his own concealed firearm from his shoulder holster, and fired two precise shots.
Bang! Bang!
The lead thug’s weapon clattered to the floor as he collapsed, wounded in the shoulder. The other two thugs hesitated for one second—just long enough for four of Ethan’s tactical bodyguards to swarm through the doors and tackle them to the ground, disarming them in seconds.
The entire firefight lasted less than four seconds.
Ethan slowly lowered his weapon, exhaling a sharp breath. He turned around, his eyes scanning the room frantically until they landed on me behind the pillar.
He rushed over, dropping to his knees to check us both.
“Are you hurt? Is Sophie okay?!” he demanded, his hands trembling slightly as he touched my arms.
“We’re fine,” I breathed, tears streaming down my face as I looked into his eyes. “We’re completely fine.”
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Ethan pulled us both into a fierce, suffocating embrace, burying his face in my hair.
The threat was gone. The war was won.
