The lights flickered as Adrian stormed down the hallway, Isabella at his back and Antonio beside him with a second pistol drawn. Smoke coiled through the air like a curse, crawling out from the west corridor. Somewhere in the distance, gunfire cracked again — sharp, precise. Not chaos. Calculated.
This wasn't an invasion.
This was an execution.
And Adrian knew exactly who the target was.
"The wedding was the distraction," he snarled. "This hit was the real gift."
"I hope you kept the receipt," Isabella muttered, blade still clutched in her fist.
Adrian glanced at her. She had blood on her cheek — not hers — and bare feet pounding across glass like she didn't feel pain.
A Romano daughter. A born traitor.
So why was she still following him?
He didn't have time to wonder.
Two Morello guards rounded the corner, one already bleeding from the thigh.
"They're dressed like our men," the first one shouted. "They're inside already."
Adrian nodded once. "Take a team. Secure the second floor. Anyone without a code word dies."
"What's the word?" the guard asked.
Adrian looked at Isabella. "La sposa."
The bride.
The guard raised a brow, but didn't question it.
Adrian pushed forward, Isabella beside him, moving like a shadow.
They reached the grand staircase just in time to see one of the imposters — dark clothes, silenced rifle, fake Morello patch — aiming for the ballroom below.
Adrian didn't slow.
He drew, fired once, and put a bullet straight through the man's skull.
The body toppled over the railing, crashing into the table where the wedding cake still stood untouched.
"Was that the groom's side or mine?" Isabella asked, deadpan.
"You think this is funny?"
"I think if I'm going to die, I might as well go out with sarcasm."
Adrian grabbed her by the arm and pulled her behind a pillar. His voice dropped. "You're not dying tonight."
"Because you need me?"
"No. Because I haven't decided what I want from you yet."
Another explosion rocked the east wing. The chandeliers swung above their heads.
Adrian turned to Antonio. "Get her out."
Antonio hesitated. "And you?"
"I'm going to find whoever dared bring a gun into my house on my wedding night."
He turned to Isabella. "Stay with Antonio. He'll get you to the armory. If you run—"
"I know," she interrupted, stepping closer. "You'll put a bullet in me."
Adrian didn't blink. "No. I'll let your father do it."
Isabella stiffened, just a breath.
But she nodded once and disappeared down the hallway with Antonio.
Adrian turned back, pistol cocked, jaw tight.
And for a brief moment — barely a flicker — his vision blurred.
Not from blood. Not from smoke.
From memory.
Flash. A coffin.
Julian. His brother.
Closed casket.
Because Romano's men hadn't left enough face to bury.
That day, Adrian had sworn something beneath his breath.
Now he said it aloud.
"I'll end your bloodline, Marco. One daughter at a time."
Another scream snapped him back.
A wounded guard stumbled through the archway, clutching his chest. "They're planting explosives in the east hall — your father's office—"
Adrian raised his gun and fired again.
This time, the bullet hit someone else.
One of Romano's men, dragging a detonator cord behind him, dropped instantly.
The Morello Don didn't speak.
He simply walked toward the body, picked up the detonator, and crushed it beneath his heel.
Tonight was supposed to end in sex and secrets.
Now it would end in blood.
And Adrian was just getting started.