“Everyone on the floor! Hands behind your heads! NOW!”
The cathedral erupted into chaos.
The calm, suffocating authority of the council shattered under the crackling tension of armed reinforcements.
Elders rose halfway, shock and fury twisting their features—but armored shoulders shoved them down.
The Ferraro heir snarled something in Italian; a baton cracked across his knees. The Morozov patriarch bellowed in rage as two officers tackled him to the ground, thick zip ties snapping tight around his wrists. Elena moved to rise, composed, almost amused, until a rifle barrel pressed against his temple. “Down,” the officer barked.
I dropped to my knees immediately, hands behind my head, breath caught in my throat.
Dmitri followed a second later—slow, deliberate, a calm anchor in the storm, never taking his eyes off Vanya.
Giovanni bent protectively over my son, shielding him with his broad frame, whispering words I couldn’t hear but that soothed the boy’s trembling body.
The officers moved with ruthless efficiency, like a machine finally set loose.
Plastic cuffs clicked shut—sharp, final sounds that echoed off stone.
Men and women were dragged to their feet, some still stunned, others snarling and resisting until batons persuaded them otherwise. One elder tried to shout over the chaos—“This is sovereign territory!”—his voice cracking with outrage.
A baton slammed into his ribs before the words fully left his mouth. He folded with a grunt, air ripped from his lungs.
“You have the right to remain silent,” an officer barked in Italian, hauling him upright again. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
The great doors stood open now, sunlight slicing through the nave in harsh, unforgiving beams.
Outside, black vans waited—unmarked, engines idling low and hungry.
I watched through the open doors as the patriarchs were marched out in order, as if some final, cruel ceremony demanded it.
The Orlov patriarch went first, chin lifted, silver hair immaculate despite the cuffs biting into his wrists.
Pride clung to him like a second skin.
The Morozov elders followed, muttering curses under their breath, eyes blazing with promises of revenge they would never get the chance to keep.
The Ferraro came last—silent, calculating, gaze flicking once over his shoulder as if already planning an escape that no longer existed.
Behind them came the rest. Soldiers. Underbosses. Accountants. Fixers. Bodyguards. Dozens of them. A grim procession of power stripped bare.
Van doors slammed. Engines roared to life. Tires screeched against ancient stone.
One by one, the vans pulled away, disappearing down the narrow road like black coffins on wheels.
The cathedral fell eerily quiet.
Candles still burned. Incense still hung in the air. The mosaic of Christ still watched from above—unchanged, indifferent.
Until only I remained.
No one had touched me. No cuffs snapped around my wrists. No officer barked orders in my direction.
I stayed kneeling in the aisle, hands still locked behind my head, heart pounding so hard I thought it might crack my ribs from the inside. My legs trembled, unsure whether they could still hold me.
Where was Vanya?
The thought clawed at me, sharp and panicked. Had they taken him away quietly? Had Giovanni handed him over to someone “safe”? Or was he still somewhere in this building, terrified and alone?