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I can’t move. I’m frozen, caught in a surreal tableau of chaos and vengeance. The aisle is littered with shattered glass and slick with crimson.

And then I see him.

Victor’s face shifts—no longer cold and calculating, but contorted with something I never expected: grief. Real, gut-wrenching grief.

He shoves past his own men, falling to his knees beside Dmitri’s body.

“My son,” he chokes, and the rawness in his voice stills the room for a breath.

He gathers Dmitri into his arms, cradling him with a tenderness that feels almost impossible amid the carnage. Blood soaks his immaculate suit as he presses one shaking hand to the wound, the other cupping Dmitri’s pale face. His silver head bows low, whispering something I can’t hear over the gunfire still cracking around us.

For the first time since I've met him, Victor Petrov looks broken, vulnerable, a father losing his only child. His hand strokes Dmitri's hair back from his face with trembling fingers, watching his legacy dissipate in front of him.

“Get her out!” Talon’s voice cuts through the mayhem as he fights his way toward us, his movements fluid and brutal as he takes down two of Victor’s guards. “I’ve got Luca and Alex.”

I rip away the veil, tearing it from my head as the chapel dissolves into warfare. I reach beneath my skirts, fingers closing around the cold metal of the gun.

“Vesper, move!” Z shouts, tackling me as bullets spray across the altar where I stood seconds before. The impact knocks the breath from my already constricted lungs as we crash to the floor.

“Can you run in this fucking monstrosity?”

“No,” I gasp, struggling against the unyielding corset. “I can't breathe, let alone run.”

Z's knife appears in his hand. With swift movements, he slashes through the laces binding my torso, the bodice immediately loosening as blessed air fills my lungs. “Better?”

“Much,” I manage, taking my first full breath since they'd laced me into the dress hours ago.

Oz drops beside us, his gun raised as he fires over the altar rail. “We need to move.”

“Not without my brother or Alex.”

“Talon is getting them. We have to get you out.”

“I'm not leaving without them!” I grab Z's arm, my fingers digging into his sleeve. “Not after everything we've done to get here.”

A bullet shatters the altar beside us, sending splinters of wood flying. Z shields me with his body, his muscles tensing as fragments pepper his back.

“Trust Talon,” Oz urges, firing another round over the rail. “He'll get them out. We have a plan for this.”

I spot Victor through the chaos. He’s still cradling Dmitri, but something in his posture has shifted—stiff, coiled, dangerous.His head lifts, scanning the battlefield until his focus lands on me. The hatred etched across his face chills my blood.

“You,” he mouths, the word clear even across the distance.

He gently lowers Dmitri to the ground, arranging his son's limbs with tender precision before rising to his feet. Blood stains the front of his immaculate suit, turning the military medals into grotesque ornaments as he draws a gun from beneath his jacket.

“We need to move. Now.” Z’s voice cuts through my horror as Victor begins advancing, shooting his own men when they get in his way.

Z grabs my hand, dragging me toward a side exit as bullets scream past us.

Oz covers our retreat, his movements swift and merciless as he takes down two of Victor’s men closing in on our position.

“Move!” Z shoves me forward as we dash between pews, the heavy wedding dress hampering my every step despite the loosened corset. I stumble, the massive skirt tangling around my legs as gunfire erupts to our right.

A bullet tears through Z's shoulder, spinning him sideways. Blood sprays across my dress as he staggers against me. Oz whirls around, rushing to his twin's side just as another shot rings out. The bullet catches him in the chest, sending him crashing into the nearest pew.

“No!” My scream tears through the chaos as both men fall.

I lunge toward them, but a powerful arm clamps around my waist, yanking me backward with brutal force. Cold metal presses against my temple, the unmistakable pressure of a gun barrel against my skin.