Chapter 4 - Smoke and Sugar
The chapel doors blew inward with a deafening crash of splintered oak and iron hardware.
Three men in tactical black gear, their faces obscured by reinforced Kevlar masks and night-vision goggles, swarmed into the pews, automatic rifles raised. The scent of gunpowder instantly overwhelmed the delicate aroma of white lilies.
"Clear!" shouted the lead operative, sweeping his weapon toward the altar where Father Santini was currently hiding beneath a heavy oak bench reciting Hail Marys in frantic Latin.
From the shadows behind the choir loft, Dominic moved with terrifying speed.
He didn't yell a warning. He simply closed the distance between himself and the nearest operative in three fluid strides. A heavy iron candelabra swung like a medieval club, catching the intruder squarely across the helmet with a sickening clang that sent the man crashing into the baptismal font.
Harper shrank behind a marble pillar, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She watched in horrified awe as Dominic dismantled the tactical team with the cold, brutal efficiency of a trained assassin. Bones snapped; bodies hit the stone floor with heavy thuds.
Within ninety seconds, five of the operatives were unconscious or groaning in pain.
The sixth operative—evidently the squad leader—managed to pivot his rifle barrel directly toward Dominic’s chest just as Dominic finished subduing the fifth man.
"Drop it, Castelli!" the leader barked, his voice distorted through a tactical communicator. "End of the line."
Dominic froze, his hands slowly rising to shoulder height. A slow, dangerous smile crept across his lips.
"You brought a rifle to a cathedral," Dominic mocked softly. "Bad theology."
Before the operative could pull the trigger, a heavy silver-plated communion tray came flying out of the sacristy door with the velocity of a flying guillotine. It caught the gunman squarely across the forearm, knocking the rifle wide.
The gun discharged, blowing a massive hole in the stained-glass window depicting Saint Jude, showering the altar in glittering shards of colored glass.
Harper lowered the heavy silver tray from her hands, her knuckles white, her wedding gown trailing across the blood-spattered marble.
The operative spun around in shock, aiming his sidearm at her. "You little bitch—"
Dominic didn't give him the chance to finish. He lunged forward, slamming his palm against the man's wrist and driving his knee upward into the operative's chest with enough force to lift him off his feet before he crashed down, unconscious.
Silence descended upon the chapel, broken only by the crackle of a burning candle and Father Santini’s terrified mumblings from beneath the wooden bench.
Dominic stood amid the wreckage, his breathing heavy, a small scratch bleeding sluggishly along his jawline. He slowly turned his head and looked at Harper, who stood holding the heavy silver tray with both hands, her chest rising and falling beneath the ivory lace.
"You threw a liturgical artifact at an armed mercenary," Dominic said, a mixture of disbelief and profound respect in his amber eyes.
"He was pointing a gun at my husband," Harper said coolly, though her knees were shaking so badly she could barely stand. She dropped the tray with a loud clatter. "Also, he ruined my wedding dress with gunpowder residue. That silk was dry-clean only."
Dominic let out a sudden, bark-like laugh—dark, resonant, and entirely genuine. He stepped over the unconscious body of the team leader, closed the distance between them, and pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her hair.
"Remind me never to get on your bad side," he murmured against her ear.
May you like
"You already did," Harper whispered back, clutching his lapels. "You married me without my permission."
"Technically," Dominic smiled grimly, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes, "the wedding hasn't officially started yet. Father Santini is still under the bench."
