Six more steps. That was all I needed to reach the far wall of the Grand Dining Hall. Six measured, impossible

"Claire."

Luca reached into the dark interior of the car, his strong, calloused hands closing around my upper arms, lifting me effortlessly from the floor as if I weighed nothing at all.

I collapsed against his chest, my fingers instinctively clutching the lapels of his heavy wool coat. He smelled of rain, cedarwood, and the faint, bitter tang of cordite.

"You're alright," he whispered, his voice surprisingly soft against my hair. His arm wrapped around my waist, supporting my weight so that no pressure touched my injured back. "I've got you. You're safe."

I looked up at him, my breath catching. "You... you weren't at the cathedral?"

"The cathedral was a diversion," Luca said, turning me slightly so I could see the rail yard.

Behind us, a dozen heavily armed Moretti operatives were disarming the surviving Castiglione gunmen, zip-tying their wrists and forcing them to their knees in the mud. Among them, sitting against the tire of a shattered Escalade with a bloody shoulder, was Marco Castiglione’s younger brother, Silvio.

Daniel walked up to Luca, carrying a tactical radio. "Boss, the Wacker Drive tunnel is locked down. Marco brought twenty men to the ambush site."

Luca looked at his head of security. "And?"

"Our armored dummy convoy engaged them five minutes ago," Daniel said, a dark grin spreading across his face. "The Chicago Police Department tactical units and federal marshals moved in from both ends of the tunnel simultaneously. Marco walked directly into an active federal sting."

Luca nodded slowly. "Did he survive?"

"He’s in federal custody right now," Daniel replied. "Facing fifty counts of conspiracy to commit murder, racketeering, and interstate trafficking. The Castiglione family is finished in this state by sunset."

I stared at Luca in disbelief. "You... you called the police?"

Luca looked down at me, a rare, wicked glint of amusement in his dark eyes. "Claire, why waste my own men's blood when the United States government will lock Marco Castiglione in a federal penitentiary in Florence, Colorado, for the next two hundred years? In modern business, you use the most efficient tool available."

He turned toward the transport helicopter waiting in the center of the yard, its twin turbines idling with a low whine.

"Now," Luca said, his arm tightening protectively around my waist. "We have a wedding reception to attend."

"What about Vanessa?" I asked, my heart thumping hard against my ribs.

"Vanessa is currently at the estate, sipping vintage champagne and waiting for the news that I died in a dark tunnel," Luca replied, his voice turning to pure ice. "It would be terribly rude to keep the bride waiting on her special day."

Thirty minutes later, the Moretti helicopter touched down on the expansive south lawn of the Lake Forest estate.

The rain had stopped, replaced by a cold, gray mist that clung to the towering oak trees. Inside the grand conservatory, the sounds of an eighty-piece chamber orchestra drifted across the grounds, accompanied by the laughter and chatter of three hundred high-society guests who had gathered for the post-ceremony celebration, unaware that the civil ceremony had never actually taken place.

Luca walked through the side terrace doors, his dark overcoat removed, once again wearing his immaculate charcoal three-piece suit.

I walked beside him, wrapped in a long, elegant black wool coat Mrs. Carter had brought down to the helipad.

As we stepped into the great marble foyer, the noise from the grand ballroom died instantly.

A waiter dropped a tray of crystal flutes, the glass shattering across the marble with a sound like a gunshot.

At the far end of the foyer, standing before the massive Florentine mirror that had caused my injury forty-eight hours ago, stood Vanessa Bellini.

She looked breathtaking in her multimillion-dollar lace wedding gown, her diamond veil cascading down her back, a silver goblet of champagne raised in her right hand as she laughed with her mother.

When her eyes landed on Luca—alive, unmarked, and standing upright—the color drained from her face so fast she looked like a ghost wrapped in silk.

The silver goblet slipped from her fingers, splashing dark red wine across the immaculate train of her white lace dress.

"Luca..." she whispered, her voice carrying across the stunned, silent crowd. "You're... you're here."

"I am," Luca said, his voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling of the foyer like a tolling bell.

He didn't rush. He walked slowly across the marble floor, his boots making a steady, deliberate rhythm that commanded the absolute attention of every person in the room.

I followed two steps behind him, my head held high, watching the terror dawn in Vanessa's eyes as she saw me standing at his side.

Luca stopped three feet from his bride.

"You look beautiful, Vanessa," Luca said softly, his eyes sweeping over her stained gown. "A little red on the hem, perhaps. But quite festive."

Vanessa’s chest was heaving, her eyes darting frantically toward the front entrance, searching for her cousins, her father’s associates, anyone from the Castiglione faction.

There was no one. The doors were flanked by Daniel and six heavily armed Moretti security guards in tactical gear.

"Where... where is the convoy?" she stammered, trying desperately to pull her hostess smile back over her terrified features. "Luca, darling, we were so worried... there were reports on the news of a shooting on Wacker Drive—"

"There was," Luca interrupted calmly. "Marco Castiglione attempted to execute an ambush."

A collective gasp swept through the three hundred guests. Several older women clutched their pearls; men reached instinctively toward their jackets, only to remember that Luca’s security had disarmed everyone at the gate.

"Marco... Castiglione?" Vanessa breathed, her hands shaking so violently she had to clasp them together. "How... how dreadful! Thank God you're safe, darling—"

"Marco didn't make it," Luca continued, his voice utterly flat. "He is currently sitting in a federal interrogation room at the Dirksen Building, singing like a canary to the United States Attorney."

Vanessa’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

Luca reached into his inner breast pocket and pulled out a small, sleek digital recorder. He pressed play.

Vanessa’s own voice blasted through the foyer speakers, amplified by the estate’s integrated sound system:

*“The wedding is the transfer. Luca signs the asset reallocation annex under the prenuptial agreement at noon on Saturday. Be ready with the transport teams by one... And Marco? Make sure you put the bullet right between his eyes. I don't want to play the grieving widow for more than six months.”*

The silence that followed was absolute.

Vanessa’s mother let out a strangled sob, burying her face in her hands. The capos and business partners who had backed the Bellini family backed away from the bride as if she were carrying the plague.

"You're a traitor, Vanessa," Luca whispered, stepping close enough that only she, I, and the front row of guests could hear. "To your family. To this house. And to the rules that keep this entire city from burning to the ground."

"Luca, please," she whimpered, falling to her knees on the marble floor, her expensive lace dress pooling around her like a shroud. Tears of pure terror cut black tracks through her mascara. "He forced me! Marco threatened my life! He had my father's debts—"

"You shoved a twenty-eight-year-old girl into a mahogany desk and threatened to murder her sick mother to protect your greed," Luca said, his eyes black with unyielding disgust.

He looked toward Daniel.

"Take her away. Put her in the holding facility at the docks until the federal marshals arrive with the indictment papers. She can share a cell block with Marco."

"No! Luca! Please!" Vanessa screamed, thrashing as two security guards grabbed her by the arms and dragged her across the marble, her eight-foot lace train tearing violently against the brass thresholds as she was hauled out into the cold rain.