Lorenzo POV
Only six of my most loyal men stood inside the old cathedral in the abandoned South Side district. Bullet holes decorated the stained-glass windows. A dead Moretti sniper still lay slumped in the back pew where my men had dropped him thirty minutes ago.
Isabella stood in front of me in a torn white silk dress we’d stolen from a bridal boutique on the way here. No veil. No flowers. Just her — bruised, marked by my hands, and looking more beautiful than any bride in history.
The old priest — the one I’d dragged from retirement at gunpoint — stuttered through the vows.
“Do you, Lorenzo Rossi, take this woman…”
“I do,” I growled, staring into her eyes. “She’s already mine.”
Isabella’s lips curved in a dark, defiant little smile. “I do,” she said before the priest could even a
