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The Cobra. Only in this case, it was Cade under there, but Miguel didn’t know that.
Yet.
No one in the audience looked at him, not even as he started to walk down the aisle. Randy and Molly Palmer looked mighty uncomfortable, whispering amongst themselves.
Miguel scowled. He let go of my hand as he shouted, “What are you doing? This wasn’t—” Right then, the wedding ceremony was surrounded by men in black: the waitstaff, only they weren’t really. Instead of Miguel’s men and those he’d hired to help push the massacre under the rug, they were all Serpents, led by Damian himself.
Shay spoke from the audience, “This wasn’t what? Part of the plan?” Her irritation at the whole thing was plain, and it was enough to piss Miguel off.
Miguel knew he was had, because he reached under his suit jacket for his gun. Before he could pull it out, though, four red dots lit up on his chest, while a fifth lit up in the center of his forehead. He couldn’t see that one, but he did see the four lining his chest, so he froze.
“What the fuck is this?” he growled out, and then he looked all around, angled his head up to the building surrounding us.
There was no way he could see them, but somewhere on the upper floors surrounding the courtyard garden, Cade’s brothers were. All professional hitmen, all ready to pull the trigger, if need be.
But Miguel Santos wasn’t their kill.
Damian scoffed, “Looks like you don’t have as many friends as you thought, huh?” He smirked and pulled out his own gun, aiming it at Miguel. The other Serpents surrounding the wedding did the same.
Miguel had dozens of guns trained on him—even more when Luca and Shay added theirs to the mix. And yet, all that said, he still acted as though he had the upper hand, as if he believed his men would swoop in and save the day.
Hint: they wouldn’t.
Randy and Molly Palmer were perhaps the most confused out of everyone—they were Miguel’s friends, but even they did not know he’d planned on massacring them today. Randy stood and demanded, “What the hell is this?” The only reason he did not go for his own gun, I’d bet, was because Atticus remained seated, calm as ever. He pointed to the Cobra. “What the hell is all of this? You’re supposed to be dead—”
Though Cade couldn’t see my face, I gave him a nod. The large man stood halfway down the aisle when he stopped and took off his mask, revealing his face. To Miguel, Cade asked, “You want to tell them, or should I?”
“Cade Cunningham?” Miguel echoed. “You’re not—”
“Not the Cobra? Yeah, I know.” Cade tossed the metal mask toward us. It landed on the carpet and slid a bit before stopping just before Miguel’s feet.
Luca addressed Randy and Molly Palmer, “He wanted to have us all killed today. Isn’t that right, Miguel? You wanted to massacre everyone at this wedding. The Black Hand, the heirs—everyone. Only you and your new bride would come out alive.” When Miguel said nothing, Luca added, “It’s too late for denial.”
Miguel chuckled. He still didn’t have the full picture. “You’ll believe this boy over me?” He incorrectly assumed this was all Luca’s doing, or maybe he lumped Luca and Cade together. “He’s not thinking clearly. He’s lost his wife and his father—how do we know that wasn’t his doing?”
“I think we both know who’s to blame for that,” I said, speaking for the first time. Those black eyes of Miguel’s were on me now, and I slowly reached for the veil with my bouquet-free hand, pushing it over my head to reveal to him I was not Gianna.
Under his breath, Ezekiel muttered something about hating guns, but I ignored him, too busy watching it dawn on Miguel’s face.
Miguel was speechless, seeing me, but I wasn’t. I smiled at him and said, “Hello, Daddy. Miss me?” Forcing me to call him daddy all those years not only infantilized me, but it also was a joke, because he’d known the whole time who he was to me.
Even though he had guns trained on him from every angle, seeing my face, hearing my voice, was enough to make Miguel snap. He went for his gun again, but before he could point it at anyone, Ezekiel made a move. He threw the bible at his arm, knocking it off-course, and before Miguel could re-aim, Ezekiel had moved in front of him. A swift punch to the throat was all Ezekiel needed to do for the man to loosen his grip on his gun, and soon enough that gun rested firmly in my priest’s hands.
Miguel coughed, his skin reddening somewhat. “This is your doing?” he hissed, glaring at me. Just like that, it was as if we were alone. No audience, no hitmen in the nearby windows, no one but him and I. “I should’ve gotten rid of you the moment I found out you weren’t mine. I should’ve gotten rid of you when I got rid of your mother.”
A last-ditch effort to hurt me because he knew he wouldn’t get out of this. His words might’ve been daggers before, but now the blades weren’t sharp enough to cut skin. Just plastic knives with no serration, flung at me in a desperate attempt to maim and injure.
Pathetic.
As Miguel straightened out, no longer choking, I retrieved my ivory gun from the bouquet, and I let the flowers fall to the ground. I locked eyes with him. “Yes, Miguel, you should’ve.”
“So, what now? You’re going to kill me?” He chuckled at that, like he really didn’t think I’d do it.
“No, first, I want you to look at them—” I pointed to the audience, to the Black Hand. At Randy and Molly, at Slade and Nixon, at Dex and Jett, at Shay and Atticus, and at Luca. “—and tell them you were going to have them killed today. Admit you wanted to have your own red wedding so you could claim it all for yourself. Admit that you were never going to stop with a position on the Black Hand when you could be the Black Hand.”
Miguel’s chest rose and fell with another round of chuckling. He did not say a word.
“We have your schemes on tape,” I informed him, “and Rocco, too.”
