Chapter 16 - The Veiled War
Desmond’s reaction was not human; it was the pure, distilled instinct of an apex predator.
The moment the rifle’s report split the air, he shoved me down onto the marble steps, throwing his massive body completely over mine like a shield of living muscle and bone.
The high-caliber round struck the stone balustrade inches above where my head had been, sending a shower of pulverized limestone raining over my bridal veil.
Screams erupted from the hundreds of wedding guests spilling out of the church doors.
Women in designer silk gowns scrambled into the dust, and men drew concealed handguns, their shouts turning the cathedral steps into a war zone.
“Sniper! Twelve o’clock! Roof of the Bell building!” Frankie bellowed, pulling twin automatics and firing blindly across the street to suppress the assassin.
Desmond didn't flinch as secondary rounds chipped the stone around us.
He gathered my silk train in his left arm, hooked his right arm under my knees, and lifted me effortlessly against his chest.
He surged down the steps toward the waiting armored Maybach, entirely ignoring the pain that must have flared through his reconstructed femur.
His strides were long, powerful, and desperate.
Two of his bodyguards formed a human wedge on either side of us, one taking a bullet through the shoulder, grunting in agony before collapsing onto the asphalt.
Desmond threw me into the open door of the limousine, diving in directly behind me as Frankie hammered the gas.
The heavy vehicle launched forward, bulletproof tires biting into the pavement as half a dozen rounds struck the reinforced windows, leaving spiderweb cracks in the thick glass.
Inside the car, I lay across the leather seat, panting, my ivory gown smeared with limestone dust and Desmond’s sweat.
Desmond hovered over me, his hands running frantically over my ribs, my neck, my face, checking every inch for blood.
“Are you hit? Nora, look at me! Did he hit you?” he roared, his voice cracking with a terror I had never heard in him before.
“I’m not hit!” I gasped, grabbing his trembling hands and holding them against my chest.
“Desmond, I’m whole! Look at me, I’m not bleeding!”
He collapsed back against the opposite seat, letting out a roar of rage so primal that the sound vibrated through the metal chassis.
He struck the mahogany partition with his bare fist, splintering the polished wood into jagged splinters.
“Moretti,” Desmond snarled, his eyes completely bloodshot with murderous insanity.
“He smiled at the altar while his dog had a scope on your heart.”
“It wasn't Moretti, Boss,” Frankie interrupted from the front, steering the speeding car through red lights down Michigan Avenue.
“I saw the muzzle flash through my glass before we broke.”
“The rifle was an Austrian Steyr SSG, military issue.”
“Moretti’s goons shoot Saturday Night Specials and cheap shotguns.”
“The only people in this territory with military-grade tactical gear are the Detroit outfit.”
Desmond froze, his hand still dripping blood where he had shattered the wooden partition.
“Detroit?” he muttered, the red mist in his eyes shifting into calculating, arctic malice.
“The Cassani family has stayed out of Chicago since ninety-six.”
“They wouldn't cross the Michigan state line unless someone opened the gates for them from the inside.”
I sat up, ripping the torn veil from my hair and throwing it onto the floorboard.
My hands were shaking, not from fear, but from the sudden, icy realization that the poison in our world ran far deeper than petty street capos.
“Leo had business in Detroit,” I said, remembering an old ledger entry I had decoded in the basement months ago.
“He had an offshore account registered to a holding company in Dearborn.”
Desmond looked at me, his gaze sharpening with chilling comprehension.
“Leo’s dead, Nora,” Desmond said.
“I buried him in the concrete myself.”
“Leo is dead,” I agreed, leaning closer to my new husband, my jaw setting into iron.
“But his money isn't.”
“And whoever inherited that account just bought a mercenary contract on our lives.”
Desmond reached into the side compartment of the limousine and pulled out a clean linen handkerchief, methodically wrapping his bleeding knuckles.
The panic of the assassination attempt vanished, replaced by the terrifying, calm focus of a warlord going to total war.
“Frankie, call the house,” Desmond ordered quietly.
“Cancel the reception at the Drake.”
“Tell every crew from Bridgeport to Evanston to lock their armories and take their stations.”
“And Frankie?”
“Yeah, Boss?”
“Call our contacts at the Port of Chicago.”
“No ship, truck, or train leaves Cook County until I have the head of the man who aimed that rifle at my wife.”
Desmond reached over, pulling me back into his arms, kissing my temple with a tenderness that defied the carnage around us.
“Welcome to the family, Mrs. O’Callaghan,” he murmured against my ear.
May you like
“I’m not going anywhere, Desmond,” I whispered back, tightening my grip on his dark lapels.
“Now let’s go kill these bastards.”
