POV Owen
“Where the hell is the priest?” I bark, checking my watch for the fifth time.
Maria flinches. “He’s parking, Mr. Tate. Please, don’t shout in the church.”
I drag a hand through my hair, pacing the marble aisle while sunlight filters through stained glass, painting Noelle and Luna in gold. My girls—both dressed in white. Too bright. Too visible.
“Everything’s fine,” Noelle says softly, rocking Luna in her arms. “It’s a christening, not a war.”
“Don’t say that word,” I mutter, scanning the pews. My gut hasn’t unclenched since we got here. Private ceremony, restricted guest list, full security sweep—and still, something feels off.
Rhea Park stands near the entrance, black suit, calm eyes, earpiece in. Ex–military, Korean-born, rumored to have once broken a man’s spine with her knee. Michael hired her as part of our “upgrade.” I don’t like strangers near my family, but she moves like someone who’s seen hell and made it her neighbor.
She catches my eye. “All clear for now.”
“For now?” I echo.
“Sir, that’s the best any of us ever get.”
The priest finally enters, muttering apologies. “Traffic, my son—”
“Start,” I cut him off.
Noelle shoots me a glare. “Could you be human for ten minutes?”
I bite my tongue. She’s right. I take Luna from her arms for a moment, brushing my thumb over the tiny lace bonnet. “Hey, moonbeam. Just water and blessings today, alright? No screaming.”
She yawns in answer. I swear she’s already mocking me.
The ceremony begins. Incense rises, candles flicker. My mind should be quiet—but it isn’t.
There’s movement outside. A reflection on glass that doesn’t match the wind.
“Rhea,” I murmur, not taking my eyes off the window. “North window. Third pane up.”
Her hand moves to her comm instantly. “Team Two, confirm northern angle.”
“Copy,” comes a voice in her ear. “Wait—”
The next sound splits the air—glass shattering, bullet cracking through holy silence.
“Noelle!” I drop, twisting around her, covering both her and the baby with my body. The bullet slams into the altar cross instead, splintering it into shards.
Screams echo off the marble. Maria hits the floor, dragging the priest with her.
Rhea’s voice cuts sharp and clean. “Sniper—north roof! Two hundred meters!”
“Get them out!” I roar, pointing toward the back hallway. “Now!”
Noelle clutches Luna tight, her eyes wide with terror. “Owen—”
“Go, angel! I’ll handle it!”
She hesitates—of course she does, stubborn to the bone—then nods and runs for cover, Maria right behind her.
I snatch the Glock from the holster beneath my jacket and sprint toward the broken window, shards crunching under my boots. Rhea’s already moving, speaking fast into her mic.
“Rooftop team, engage!”
“Negative—no visual! He’s cloaked behind scaffolding!”
“Then I’ll find him myself,” she snaps, grabbing a rifle case from behind a pew.
“Wait,” I warn, blocking her. “We take him alive.”
She loads a magazine with practiced precision. “That’s not how I do business.”
“Today you do.”
Another shot rips through the stained glass, raining color and chaos. It misses us by inches.
Rhea curses. “Fine. But if he breathes twice in my direction, he’s gone.”
We move together, sprinting through the side corridor to the access stairs. My pulse hammers like it used to on missions I’d sworn I’d never take again.
“Who the hell knew about the christening?” I demand.
“Only the inner circle. Your wife, her father, me, and the priest,” Rhea says between breaths.
“Then one of those isn’t clean.”
We burst through the roof door. Wind slams against us, strong and cold. Rhea drops low, scanning with her scope.
“There!” she hisses.
A dark figure crouches near the far ledge, rifle aimed straight at the chapel skylight. He fires again. The bullet punches through the stone angel above the altar.
I move fast, crawling across the gravel. Rhea covers me. “Ten meters!” she calls.
“Keep him busy.”
She fires a warning shot—clean, professional. The sniper ducks, curses, and bolts for the ladder on the east side. I sprint after him, boots sliding, adrenaline drowning reason. The man’s fast, trained, familiar. He reaches the ladder and jumps—but I grab his collar, yanking him back hard.
He spins, swinging the rifle butt. It catches me across the jaw. My vision flashes white. I slam him into the roof vent, pinning him by the throat.
“Who sent you?” I snarl.
He laughs, muffled through his mask. “Message says hello.”
“Message from who?”
He doesn’t answer—he just smiles. That’s when I see the tattoo on his wrist: a circle with a split dagger through it.
My blood runs ice-cold. Silas Kane’s mark. I rip off his mask. The face means nothing—but the insignia burned into his neck does. Silas’s recruits always wore their loyalty like a curse.
Before I can interrogate, the man jerks forward—something metallic glinting between his teeth.
“Grenade pin!” Rhea screams.
I throw him backward, hard, but it’s too late. The explosion tears the corner of the roof, flinging both of us across the gravel.
Smoke. Dust. Ringing in my ears. When I open my eyes, Rhea’s crouched beside me, bleeding from a gash on her temple but alive. The sniper’s gone—what’s left of him is nothing but red mist against the far parapet.
She presses her earpiece. “All units, secure the perimeter! Medical team now!”
I stagger to my feet, wiping blood from my mouth. “The baby—Noelle—”
“Safe,” Rhea says firmly. “Maria moved them to the basement chapel.”
I nod, half dizzy, half enraged. I walk to the edge of the roof where the sniper had stood. Amid the debris, the twisted rifle lies cracked, its magazine blown open. One bullet remains intact, lodged halfway in the casing.
I pick it up carefully. The serial number’s been etched crudely into the side—one I recognize instantly.
SK-117. Silas Kane. My old handler, my ghost, my unfinished sin.
Rhea’s voice is distant now, calling backup. I can barely hear her over the blood in my ears. All I can see is that mark—the proof that this wasn’t random. This was a declaration.
“Owen?” she says cautiously. “Talk to me. What does that mean?”
“It means,” I answer, voice low, “that my past just sent a bullet to my daughter’s christening.”
Down below, sirens start again—real ones this time. Paramedics rush, guards shout, Michael’s men seal off the street. But I’m not listening. I’m staring at the skyline, at the smoke rising where the sniper once crouched, and the promise he left behind.
Rhea steps closer, resting a hand on her gun. “What now?”
I clench the bullet in my fist until it cuts my skin. “Now?” I whisper. “Now I kill every piece of the past that still thinks it owns me.”
She nods once, as if understanding something she’s seen a hundred times before. “Then I’ll cover you.”
Below us, church bells start ringing—the ceremony that never finished. Noelle’s voice carries faintly through the shattered roof, crying out for me. I look up at the broken stained glass where sunlight spills in crimson streaks.
Blood, light, and vows—all in one breath. I close my hand tighter around the bullet, the metal biting deep, the sting a promise.
“This isn’t over, Silas,” I whisper to the wind. “You came for my family. Now I’m coming for you.”