- Isabella
The gunshot tore through the corridor with violent precision, the sound reverberating against stone and stained glass as if the cathedral itself had been struck. I saw the flash before I processed the direction, saw the masked man's stance steady and deliberate, his weapon aimed not at Luca—but at me.
Luca reacted faster than thought.
His arm wrapped around my waist with force and momentum, pivoting us sideways as the bullet struck the pillar where I had been standing only seconds before. Stone exploded into fragments, sharp pieces cutting through silk and skin alike. I felt the sting along my shoulder but registered no pain yet, only the overwhelming surge of adrenaline flooding my body.
The corridor descended into chaos.
Gunfire echoed from both ends now, overlapping bursts that blurred into a deafening storm. Luca pushed me backward into the recess of an alcove near a collapsed archway. His body shielded mine as he fired twice in controlled succession, each shot deliberate and economical. One of the masked men fell. Another retreated behind the smoke.
The air thickened with dust and the metallic scent of blood.
"Stay down," he said, his voice level despite the violence surrounding us.
I pressed my back against the cold stone and forced myself to breathe through the haze. My ears rang, but my vision remained sharp. Across the corridor, two of Luca's men advanced strategically, covering angles with disciplined precision. These were not panicked guards scrambling for safety. They were soldiers executing rehearsed contingencies.
Which meant this attack had been anticipated.
But not fully predicted.
Another explosion shook the sanctuary doors at the far end of the hall, splintering wood and sending guests fleeing in all directions. Screams layered over gunfire. Somewhere beyond the smoke, I heard my father shouting orders, his voice strained and frantic, stripped of the composure he wore like armor in boardrooms and negotiations.
Luca's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at the sound.
He glanced toward the sanctuary, calculating distances and outcomes, then back at me. His eyes scanned my face quickly, searching for injury.
"You're bleeding," he said.
I reached for my shoulder and felt warmth beneath the silk. A thin line of red stained the sleeve where stone had cut into skin. It was shallow. Manageable.
"I'm fine," I replied, though my pulse was hammering.
His gaze lingered half a second longer than necessary, as if committing the sight of it to memory. Then he removed his jacket without hesitation and draped it around my shoulders, covering the white fabric already marked by dust and blood.
"This was not solely Romano," he said, more to himself than to me. "The coordination is external."
"The message," I said quickly. "The one you received."
His eyes shifted back to mine, sharper now.
"You saw that?"
"I saw your expression."
Even now, even surrounded by gunfire, a flicker of something unreadable crossed his face.
A burst of automatic fire erupted from the sanctuary entrance. One of the masked men lunged forward through the smoke, moving with professional precision, not the reckless aggression of Romano soldiers. The insignia on his wrist flashed briefly again—a small black marking that did not belong to any Italian family I recognized.
Luca stepped in front of me before I could fully register the threat. He fired once. The masked man staggered but did not fall. Another masked figure emerged behind him, weapon raised.
Matteo appeared from the side corridor and tackled the second attacker before he could shoot, slamming him into the marble floor. The crack of bone against stone was audible even through the gunfire.
"West entrance compromised," Matteo shouted. "Romano men are pulling back."
Pulling back.
That meant retreat.
That meant my father had realized something had gone wrong.
The smoke thickened, curling along the vaulted ceilings like dark incense. Luca moved with controlled urgency, guiding me along the wall toward a secondary exit that led to the inner estate. His hand remained firmly at my waist, not possessive in the theatrical sense, but protective in a way that felt deliberate and absolute.
As we reached the archway, another shot rang out from behind us.
This one struck true.
Luca's body jerked slightly against mine.
The sound that left him was not a cry, not a gasp, but a restrained exhale as if the impact had surprised him more than hurt him.
My stomach dropped.
He did not fall.
He did not loosen his grip.
But I saw the dark stain spreading slowly across the back of his shirt beneath the fabric of his vest.
"Luca," I said, my voice tightening despite my effort to stay steady.
He did not look at me immediately. He turned, firing twice more toward the source of the shot. The masked shooter collapsed against the shattered altar steps, his weapon skidding across the marble.
Only then did Luca's gaze return to me.
"It's superficial," he said evenly, though I could see the tension gathering beneath his composure.
"You've been shot."
"I've had worse."
Another tremor shook the cathedral, though this one came from outside the structure. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, signaling that law enforcement had finally reached the perimeter.
The attackers were retreating now, slipping through broken entrances and smoke-filled corridors with unsettling coordination. They had not come to win a battle.
They had come to send a message.
Luca guided me through the inner doors into the estate's secured wing, where reinforced steel barriers sealed behind us with heavy mechanical finality. The chaos outside became muffled, reduced to distant echoes.
The hallway here was silent.
Too silent.
For a moment, we simply stood facing one another beneath the dim emergency lights. His hand remained at my waist, steady despite the blood slowly darkening his back.
"You should sit," I said quietly.
He studied me instead.
Not with anger.
Not with accusation.
But with something that felt far more dangerous.
"You did not panic," he observed.
"There wasn't time."
"You assessed the shooters."
"I grew up watching men calculate war at dinner tables."
A pause stretched between us, heavy but not hostile.
"Your father tried to break this alliance before it formed," Luca said. "But he was not the architect of that attack."
"No," I agreed. "He was reacting. Not leading."
The admission settled into the space between us with quiet inevitability.
Somewhere beyond these walls, my father's forces were scattering. His gamble had failed, and in failing, he had exposed something larger, something neither of our families fully understood yet.
Luca reached up and loosened his tie slightly, the first visible crack in his immaculate composure.
"They targeted you," he said, his voice lower now, more controlled than calm. "Not the guests. Not the priests. You."
I met his gaze without looking away.
"I know."
Silence followed, thick and charged.
His hand tightened almost imperceptibly at my waist, as though confirming I was still there, still intact, still breathing.
"When someone aims at what is mine," he said slowly, each word deliberate, "they do not get a second opportunity."
The air seemed to shift around him, colder, sharper.
And in that moment, standing beneath emergency lights with blood staining silk and smoke lingering in my lungs, I understood something that went beyond contracts or alliances.
This marriage had just stopped being about peace.
It had become about possession.
And someone had just declared war on both of us.