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“Fuck,” he hisses as more Irishmen burst through the back doors of the ceremony hall, hemming us in on the altar.
“I’ll clear a path for you,” I roar, shooting over Aleksandr’s head and taking out two men in the process. “Wren, stay down!”
I whip around and assess. My men are doing as good a job as possible at keeping the Irish at bay. And we have the additional support of the Zanetti mafia. Speaking of which…
Where the fuck is Vittorio?
I try to scan for the old Italian don, but he’s disappeared into the chaos of the fight. Wedding guests are hurtling this way and that, wailing in terror. Women cower beneath pews and crawl under tables as bullets scythe through the air over their heads. The aisles and doorways are crowded with one body after the next. Gowns drip heavy with sticky crimson blood.
It’s a snapshot of complete and utter turmoil. Nothing makes that clearer than Bee in her wedding dress and her fake pregnant belly, popping off rounds like a trigger-happy maniac. Crazed bubbles of laughter escape her lips with every report of the gun.
When she sees me looking at her, she winks. “What a wedding, huh?” she says with zeal.
“You’re supposed to be pregnant,” I hiss, trying to pull her back.
She shrugs me off. “Pretend I’m the kind of pregnant chick who’s not afraid of a good time.”
I look back over my shoulder to make sure Wren is okay. One stray bullet and I could lose her; I could lose my son.
Bee follows my gaze and nods grimly. “Go,” she urges. “Go protect your woman. I can handle myself.”
One of the Irish manages to breach the steps. I send a bullet straight into his forehead and his eyes roll into death just like the rest of him.
“Get the girl!” another behind him shouts. “The pregnant one!”
We’re swatting flies at this point. Every time one Irish soldier dies, two more sprout up to take his place. It’s a mass of writhing limbs and flashing muzzles. Through it all, I see Aleksandr looming over Wren in the shadow cast by a vase full of flowers almost as tall as she is.
I charge over, clearing my way with a hail of bullets. When I finally reach her, she’s ash-pale and trembling violently. I clutch her face in both hands and look her in the eye. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”
Her features dissolve for a moment and suddenly, I’m not seeing Wren; I’m seeing Elena. I made the same promise to her once, a long time ago.
We all know how that ended.
Wren’s hands ring around my wrists and I’m caught captive by those perfect green eyes. “Please don’t leave me,” she whispers.
“I will find you,” I promise her. “I swear, I will find you. Always.”
Her eyes flicker past me before going wide with panic. “Behind you!” she screams.
Grabbing her by the waist, I fling her to the side, just in time to avoid our attacker. While we’re still turning, I shoot twice, catching him once in the hip and once in the spine. He falls to the floor limp and spasming violently, bloody foam frothing up at his lips.
Aleksandr rushes back over. “We have to move fast. There are more men coming.”
I nod and shove Wren towards him. She falls against his chest but her eyes are stuck on me, her arm reaching out desperately. “No. Wait! Dmitri…”
Hearing her say my name like that after so long gives me the eleventh-hour push I need. “Take her, brother. Keep her safe.”
More men zig-zag in every direction. So fucking many of them. I can’t tell friend from foe from innocent, terrified bystander.
All I have the presence of mind to do is watch Wren go and fire at any man who even glances wrong in her direction.
And then I see him.
An Irish soldier, neck marred with the sigil of the O’Gadhra clan, his tongue stuck out between his teeth in fierce concentration. He sees me looking at him—and then, when I can’t stop myself from peeking once more at her, he follows my line of sight and understands instantly that she is the one thing I cannot bear to lose.
Then he starts to make for her.
I’m dumbstruck for only a moment before I start sprinting to intercept him. But in the end, it’s that wasted moment that makes all the difference.
