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Hook: A dangerous promise under the neon glow.The bass of Eclipse pulsed through the floorboards, vibrating right up into the soles of Angel’s heels. Dorian’s hand didn’t touch her—not yet—but the sheer heat radiating from his body was enough to trap her against the edge of the velvet-roped VIP section. / Chapter 4 / 6

Chapter 4 - THE CATACLYSM

Hook: A bloodbath breaks out at the altar.“Kill her,” Greta shrieked, her perfect bridal facade shattering into ugly rage. “Kill that bitch right now!”

The cathedral erupted into absolute chaos.

Silvio Maro’s men pulled their submachine guns from beneath their coats, aiming straight down the aisle at Angel. But before a single trigger could be pulled, Dorian leaped over the altar railing.

“Hold your fire!” Dorian roared, his voice booming through the church like thunder. He drew his own weapon, pointing it directly at Silvio Maro’s chest. “Anyone who shoots her dies first!”

Instantly, the Esposito loyalists drew their weapons, aiming at the Maro family. The Maros aimed back at the Espositos. A hundred loaded firearms were drawn inside the house of God, a single twitch away from turning the holy sanctuary into a slaughterhouse.

Angel stood perfectly still at the back of the church, her heart pounding violently, but she didn't back down. She had played her card. Now, it was up to Dorian.

“Dorian!” his aging father, Don Vicente Esposito, coughed from the front row, his face pale from sickness. “What are you doing? Think of the family!”

“I am thinking of the family, Father,” Dorian said, his eyes never leaving Silvio Maro. “But I won't buy our survival with a lie. The treaty is void.”

Greta let out a gutteral scream of rage. She grabbed a small, silver stiletto knife hidden inside her bridal bouquet and lunged directly at Dorian's throat.

Dorian sidestepped her easily, grabbing her wrist and twisting it until she dropped the blade, throwing her back toward her father.

“This means war, Esposito!” Silvio Maro bellowed, his face purple with fury. “You won't leave this church alive!”

“We’ll see about that,” Dorian replied. He turned toward the back of the church. “Marco! Smoke!”

Marco Bell threw two heavy tactical smoke grenades onto the marble floor. Instantly, thick, blinding white smoke billowed out, filling the cathedral within seconds. Gunfire erupted—loud, deafening explosions echoing off the stone walls as both families began firing blindly through the smoke.

Screams, breaking glass, and the roar of bullets filled the air.

Angel covered her ears, dropping to the floor to avoid the stray bullets tearing through the wooden pews above her. Through the thick smoke, she couldn't see anything. She felt a cold hand of terror grip her chest. Had she just caused a massacre? Was she about to die here?

Suddenly, a strong, muscular arm wrapped around her waist, lifting her effortlessly from the floor.

“I told you what would happen if you wore that dress,” a rough, familiar voice whispered into her ear through the chaos.

Dorian.

He didn't wait for her to speak. Keeping his body over hers like a shield, he fired three shots into the smoke to clear a path, dragging her through a side exit into the rainy alleyway behind the cathedral.

A sleek, armored black sedan was idling at the curb, the back door open. Henry was in the driver's seat, his hands shaking violently on the steering wheel, while Deb was in the passenger seat, hyperventilating.

“Get in! Get in!” Henry screamed.

Dorian shoved Angel into the back seat, diving in right after her and slamming the heavy door shut just as a hail of bullets chipped the brick wall behind them.

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The ink on the emergency audit report was barely dry when the secure ter...

The glass shattered into a thousand tiny diamonds on the marble, scattering the light from the chandeliers. The muffled laughter died instantly, replaced by a suffocating, heavy silence that crept outward from the grand staircase.

The glass shattered into a thousand tiny diamonds on the marble, scatter...

The heavy oak doors of my private study clicked shut behind us, locking out the clinical, terrifying silence of the kitchen. Evelyn Crane stood stiffly in front of my mahogany desk, her hands folded over her apron with the rigid precision of someone who had spent decades micromanaging every square inch of my estate. Behind her, Norah hovered near the doorway, clutching her clipboard like a shield.

The heavy oak doors of my private study clicked shut behind us, locking...

“Drive!” Dorian ordered.

The tires screeched as Henry slammed on the gas, rocketing the SUV away from the cathedral and into the chaotic streets of Manhattan.

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