Chapter 3
Isabella's POV
September in New York. The sun was brutal.
Outside St. Patrick's Cathedral, armored Maybachs and Rolls-Royces lined the block. Armed guards in sunglasses owned the street, positioned every few yards like they'd been planted there.
The heads of New York's Five Families, political heavyweights, Wall Street titans — everyone who mattered had shown up to witness the ultimate union of power and money.
In the VIP dressing room behind the cathedral, I sat in front of the vanity.
"Miss Rossi, you look — oh my God." The Hollywood makeup artist stepped back, hand over her mouth. "Absolute perfection."
I stared at my reflection. The mermaid gown hugged every curve. The veil stretched fifteen feet behind me like a cloud.
Beautiful as a sacrificial lamb dressed for the altar.
"Thank you." I smiled. "I need a minute alone. Pre-wedding jitters, you know. Come back in ten."
"Of course, Miss." They filed out. The heavy door clicked shut.
My smile dropped.
I kicked off the diamond-studded heels and pulled on the black combat boots I'd stashed under the couch. Opened the vanity drawer. Strapped my mother's silver Beretta to my thigh. Then placed the card I'd written last night dead center on the vanity, right where they couldn't miss it.
"Chloe. Status." I pressed the micro-transmitter hidden in my earring.
"Your peacock's been at the altar for twenty minutes." Chloe's voice came through over rapid keystrokes. "Working the room like he's already king."
She paused.
"Oh, and your little replacement? Sophia's parked in a black Chevy by the side entrance. Lorenzo's guy just gave her the signal — told her to hold till after the 'I dos.'"
"Perfect." I crossed to the massive tapestry in the corner.
Growing up in the life, you learn the secrets of every building that matters. This cathedral had a tunnel built during Prohibition for dodging the feds. Led straight to an underground garage one block over.
"Tunnel surveillance is down," Chloe added. "Your car's at the exit. Straight shot to JFK. Airspace is clear."
"Copy." I pulled back the tapestry and pushed open the hidden stone door. "Patch the feed through. I want to watch this from the plane."
I glanced back at the fifteen-foot veil crumpled on the floor.
Goodbye, Lorenzo.
Enjoy your solo performance.
Inside the cathedral, the pipe organ swelled into the Wedding March.
Lorenzo Falcone stood before the priest in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, wearing his devoted-lover face for the crowd. But his eyes kept flicking toward the side entrance.
Minutes ticked by.
The bride who should've been walking down the aisle? Nowhere.
Guests started whispering. The heads of the Five Families frowned. Marco Rossi — head of the clan, Isabella's father — turned purple, hissing at the guards flanking him.
Irritation spiked through Lorenzo.
What the hell was Isabella doing? She was never late. A wardrobe problem?
"Go check," he told his best man.
The best man hurried toward the back.
Outside the side entrance, Sophia twisted her hands together, heart hammering.
Now. It had to be now.
She shoved the door open, pushed past the guards — who put up a half-hearted attempt to stop her — and stumbled into the nave.
"Lorenzo!" Tears streamed down her face, voice cracking off the vaulted ceiling. "Stop! I'm carrying your child! You can't marry her!"
The words hit like a grenade.
The room erupted.
Every eye in the cathedral locked onto Sophia and Lorenzo.
Shit. She was supposed to wait until AFTER the vows.
Lorenzo was about to signal his men to pull her out when —
His best man came flying from the back, white as a sheet, practically tripping over his own feet.
"Boss!" He gasped, grabbing Lorenzo's arm. "We got a — there's a problem. A big one."
Lorenzo stiffened. "What?"
The best man's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"The bride." He swallowed hard. "She's — she's gone."
