Broken by Silence, page 27
I’ve gone silent again.
It’s safer this way. Lorenzo thinks he’s broken me, and for now, that’s exactly what I want him to believe.
“Hold still,” Tracey mutters, jerking the fabric higher. I flinch, but she doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. Her face is pinched, her hands trembling slightly. She’s been crying, I think. But not for me. Never for me. “You could at least pretend to be grateful. This is good for us. Think of the life we’ll both get to live now.”
I meet her gaze in the mirror, but I don’t speak. I can’t. I just stare at her, hatred in my eyes. Tracey looks away first, just as the door creaks open, and Lorenzo steps inside, immaculate as ever.
Black suit, silver cufflinks, hair slicked back like he’s walking into a boardroom instead of a wedding. He looks at me the way someone looks at a prized horse. “She’s beautiful,” he says to Tracey, as if I’m not standing right here. “Almost perfect. Pity about the bruising.”
He reaches into his jacket and pulls something small and metallic from his pocket—a gun. My blood runs cold.
Tracey stiffens. “Lorenzo—”
He holds it out to her, grip-first, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “In case our little bride gets any ideas.”
For a moment, I think she won’t take it. Her fingers twitch. Her throat moves as she swallows. But then she does because she always does. “Make sure she walks down that aisle, Tracey.”
Tracey’s hand shakes as she presses the weapon against my ribs, the cold press of it burning through the fabric of my dress. “Don’t make me use it,” she whispers.
I don’t respond. I just nod once, mechanical, and she exhales in shaky relief.
The house feels like a tomb as they lead me through it. The air smells like roses and champagne. I can see the garden through the glass doors… a vision of beauty that feels obscene. It’s been transformed. Rows of white chairs line the manicured lawn, draped in ribbons. The archway at the end of the aisle is covered in ivory roses. There’s music playing, soft and classical, and people—guests—sitting and smiling as if they’re about to witness something holy.
They have no idea they’re attending a hostage situation dressed as a wedding.
The sun is blinding when I step outside. The heat presses against my skin, thick and suffocating. My bare feet sink slightly into the grass as Tracey nudges me forward, the gun still hidden beneath the bouquet she’s pretending to adjust.
The guests stand.
Lorenzo waits at the end of the aisle, hands clasped in front of him, his expression smug, composed. He looks like a man who’s already won.
Each step feels heavier than the last. My shoulder throbs, my chest feels tight, and the world narrows down to the sound of the strings, the hum of whispers, the pressure of metal against my ribs.
By the time I reach him, my vision’s gone blurry. Lorenzo steps forward, takes my hand, and when I don’t resist, his smile widens.
“See?” he murmurs. “Obedience looks good on you.”
The officiant begins to speak. I don’t hear the words. They melt into a dull drone, like white noise.
“Do you, Lorenzo Valen, take Scarlett Reyes to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.” His voice is happy like he’s been waiting to say it all his life.
The officiant turns toward me. “And do you, Scarlett—”
Tracey digs the gun into my side, hard enough to bruise. The cold press through the lace reminds me of what happens if I don’t play along. My lips part, but no sound comes out. My throat is dry, the words caught somewhere between terror and defiance. The officiant hesitates, glancing between us. The silence stretches for too long. Lorenzo squeezes my fingers, the gesture meant to look tender, but the pressure behind it is a warning.
“I do,” I whisper. The words taste like ash.
Lorenzo’s grin blooms—sharp and victorious.
The officiant nods, smiling as though love is what fills the air, not fear. “Before we continue, as tradition dictates…” He looks out at the crowd, spreading his arms with a serene smile. “If anyone here has reason why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now, or forever hold your peace.”
The garden goes silent. The wind stills. Even the music fades into nothing. My heart pounds so hard it hurts. No one moves. No one speaks.
And then a voice cuts through the quiet. Rough, steady, and unmistakably familiar. “I object…”
Chapter 39
Elijah
We’re spread around the table in the hotel room, paper cups of coffee now gone cold. Blueprints of Lorenzo’s estate stare up at us—rooms, gates, patrol routes marked in red.
Crew paces the length of the room, jaw working, the vein at his temple thudding. Oscar’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, eyes cold and far away. Archer’s reassembling his gun methodically. Roman is talking through where each gate is, and even an entrance he’s sure Lorenzo doesn’t know exists.
Me? I’m watching the clock like it’s a live wire.
What is she going through in there?
He has my wife, and I’m going to kill him for touching her, just like I did my dad.
Will and Claire stand together at the edge of the table. Will’s in his suit but his tie’s loose, shoes scuffed… he’s put together but he’s just as much of a mess as the rest of us. Claire is the opposite, braid down her back, shoulders pulled back as she forces us to keep it together… for her.
Then there’s Peter.
We had to tell him what happened, and he demanded to come with us back to their home state, where Lorenzo brought her. He looks smaller than I’ve ever seen him, his hands trembling as he clutches at a photo of Lottie when she was a child. He’s raw in a way we’re not supposed to be on a job like this. Grief makes you vulnerable and dangerous.
It’s a lethal combo that always ends with someone dead.
Crew drove out there two hours ago to do recon and get us information.
“It’s definitely a wedding.” Crew says, finally, breaking the silence. His voice is gravel, scraped raw. “He’s got guards posted at every exit and along the perimeter. Tracey’s with her.”
At that name, Peter’s face twists. “Tracey?” His voice breaks. “She’s hurting her again for her own good.” His fist slams the map so hard it buckles the paper, and we all watch as he breaks it into pieces.
I step forward, trying to steady my voice even though my own blood’s boiling. “We’ll get her out. I swear it.”
He shakes his head violently. “I’m going with you.”
“You can’t come,” Roman says before I even have time to. He’s not being cruel, but he’s right.
“You think I’m going to sit here while my daughter—”
“You’ll slow us down,” Roman tells him honestly. “We can’t protect you and her at the same time.”
Peter’s breathing hard, like he’s seconds away from shattering. “She’s my little girl,” he whispers. “I should’ve protected her the first time. I won’t fail her again.”
“And you will, by making sure we aren’t focusing on you too,” Archer says. “I’m sorry. I know, because if someone told me I had to sit and wait, I would be clawing at the walls to get to her. But the fact is, you’re a liability. Every single person in this room has been trained to fight. You haven’t.”
Claire steps forward, hand on his arm, firm. “We know what you feel, Peter. But this isn’t about guilt. It’s about getting her back in one piece. If you go in with us, you’ll get yourself killed, and they’ll keep her as a bargaining chip.” Her voice is soft, but there’s something under it telling him not to argue with her.
Will doesn’t look at me when he speaks. He’s looking at Peter. “You can come,” he says, slow, measured. “But you stay in the van. You don’t climb out unless I tell you to. You understand me? You sit, you watch, and you call no one. If anything goes sideways, if she comes running out and it looks like we aren’t following, you promise me that you will do everything you can to get her out of there.”
Peter blinks at him. “I’ll do anything. I just don’t want to be useless.”
The look he gives Peter has no room for theatrics. “Say the words.”
Peter swallows and almost whispers, “I promise. I’ll stay in the van. I’ll wait. I’ll… I’ll get her out of there.”
Will’s mouth tightens, and then he nods. “Good. Because if you move, you’re a liability. If you’re a liability, we leave you and get her. Understood?”
Peter’s jaw works. “Understood.”
We lay out the plan again, faster this time. Will’s been doing this long enough that his calm is surgical; he hands out orders and roles without breaking a sweat. Roman takes the west flank with Archer to his side, exploiting the service entrance. Crew and Oscar take the approach to the glass doors, clearing the lawn. Claire is with Will while Peter goes to the van. Will has men positioned with him, and Pacheco and his men are to come from the south exit, taking out the last of the guards.
I go through the study. That gets me closest to the garden altar where they’ve been staging this farce.
We kit up in the room. Will checks his piece once, twice, looks up at us like a man who’s both judge and jury. “No bullshit,” he says. “We bring her back. We walk away. If anyone gets in the way, you do what you need to do. I don’t care if there are guests… if they try to stop us, they’re dead.”
Peter stands on the threshold as we file out. For a moment, he’s a statue—nobody tells him he can’t come, but nobody gives him a weapon either. He places the photograph back in his pocket like it’s a talisman and nods his head.
We climb into the vehicles. Will takes the wheel of the lead van, Claire beside him, Peter in the back, ready to jump into the driver’s seat when we get there. Roman and Archer pile into the second. Crew and Oscar into the rear. I sit on the edge of the seat, fingers pressed to the outline of my gun until the shape feels like a second heartbeat.
The estate is the same—stone and iron and a manicured arrogance that looks obscene. From a distance, it could be a postcard… From close up, it’s a trap with a pretty face.
We split exactly like the plan. We move through shadow and undergrowth like a single unit, and as I slip across the threshold into the house that holds my wife hostage, I know I’m not leaving here without her.
Gunfire rips through the halls, close enough that I can taste the smoke. My ears ring, but I keep moving. Fast. Precise. One man drops by the stairwell—a clean shot through the chest. Another tries to raise his weapon, but Roman takes him out before he can even blink.
We meet in the foyer, then move like a single force—Crew, Roman, Oscar, Archer, and me—cutting through Lorenzo’s estate one corridor at a time.
No hesitation.
No mercy.
My pulse is a hammer. Every breath burns. But I don’t stop. I can’t. Because at the end of all this, through all of this chaos, through this fucking house, is her.
Lottie.
My wife.
I can see flashes of white through the windows as we turn the final corner. The garden, all lace and roses and rot. The music drifts faintly, soft and elegant, like none of this blood exists.
Through the glass doors, I see them, and my stomach twists at the sight of her in that dress. The bastard put her in white.
Lorenzo stands beside her, his hand holding hers like she’s a possession. My vision tunnels.
He took her from us. Bruised her. Broke her once and is trying to do it again.
She's mine to protect. I'll tear apart anyone who thinks they can hurt her again—even if I have to burn the world to do it.
We reach the glass doors that open to the garden. I don’t hesitate. I slam them open so hard they shatter. The sound echoes across the yard, and heads turn.
Lorenzo’s face twists in shock as I step into the light.
“I object,” I say, voice cold, steady, deadly. I raise my gun, the barrel aimed straight at his heart. “Now get your hands off my fucking wife.”
The music stops, and dead silence is all you hear for a moment until the tell-tale pop of a gunshot and another guard being downed inside gets everyone in motion.
Guests flee from their seats and out the open doors. Someone brushes past me, knocking me slightly, but I don’t care about any of that because Lottie’s eyes find mine. Wide, trembling, but alive, and that’s all that matters.
“You weren’t invited,” Lorenzo growls, fixing his cufflinks with infuriating calm, as if this isn’t the end of his empire.
“I assumed it was an open invitation since you were marrying my wife, Lorenzo.” I take a step closer. “So I suggest you give her back to me before I kill you where you stand.”
He smirks, eyes dark and hollow. “You don’t have the balls for that.”
“Don’t I?” I take another slow, deliberate step, the safety clicking off. “I killed James—my own father. You think I’ll hesitate to kill you after what you did to her?”
His voice cracks, rage boiling beneath the surface. “She’s never been yours! She’s mine. She’ll always be mine—”
“No,” I say, my voice like a blade. “She was never yours. You took something she didn’t give. You might’ve owned her body for a time, but you never touched her heart. You never owned her, Lorenzo. You only broke what you couldn’t control.”
The mask slips. His face twists with fury.
Tracey steps closer to Lottie, pulling her away from Lorenzo. Lottie flinches, instinctively pulling back, and that’s all it takes for all hell to break loose.
Crew and Oscar burst from the side door, guns raised. Roman takes the flank, silent and ruthless, sneaking up on his dad. Archer joins me, his eyes fixated on Lottie. “You okay, baby?” he calls out.
Lottie nods, but I can see it… the small, shaky breath that leaves her lungs as she realizes we truly came for her this time. Then the world explodes. Gunfire tears through the garden. Guests scream and scatter, silk dresses and tuxedos dissolving into panic as Lorenzo’s men fire wildly. Roses burst into clouds of red petals and blood. Tables flip, glass shatters, and the classical music still playing in the background turns the scene into something sick and surreal.
I keep my eyes on Lorenzo the entire time, because he’s the reason for all of this—the screaming, the blood, the way the world felt like it was ending when we were told Lottie was gone. Roman and I move like wolves closing in on our prey, cutting through the chaos, every step bringing us closer to the archway he tried to make her say “I do” beneath.
Roses fall from above, petals and smoke swirling together like a fucked up backdrop until it feels like we’re fighting inside a nightmare. Lorenzo sees us coming, and his smirk falters, hand twitching near his gun.
But then Tracey yanks Lottie’s arm so hard she cries out, pressing a gun against her ribs, and everything in me stops.
“Stay back!” Tracey screeches, her voice shrill, cracking. “You take one more step and I’ll kill her. I’m not going to let you ruin everything I’ve worked for!”
“Let her go!” Archer roars.
My gun swings toward her, sight locked on her head, but I can’t take the shot. Not with Lottie trembling in front of her, the barrel digging into her side. Lottie’s pale, her arm hanging loosely at her side. The wedding dress is torn at the shoulder, her skin streaked with blood splatters, but her eyes, they’re clear.
Claire runs in, downing men with every step. She’s a picture of fury, eyes locked on Tracey. “Get your hands off of my fucking daughter!” She yells, gun raised.
“Tracey,” Lorenzo barks. “Do it.”
Tracey flinches. “No. If she’s dead, then there’s no deal, and I’ve worked far too hard to get this far. She’s useless if she’s dead—”
“I said, do it!” He turns on her, fury spilling out of every inch of him. “She’s mine, and if I can’t have her, then neither can they!”
And that’s his mistake.
Roman moves before anyone can stop him, tackling Lorenzo to the ground with a roar of fury. Crew rushes to help him. Oscar’s moving silently towards Tracey from her left, signing to Lottie. “It’s okay, baby. We’ve got you now.”
“Lottie,” Claire calls out softly.
Lorenzo snarls, and I turn in time to see him raising his gun toward where Lottie and Tracey stand, and that’s when I fire.
The shot hits Lorenzo square in the shoulder. He stumbles back, crashing into the arch. Tracey panics, her grip on Lottie tightens, the gun digging deeper into her side. “Nobody move!” she shrieks. “I’ll kill her, I swear to god!”
Lottie’s trembling, but she looks to Claire, something fierce in her eyes. She shifts, slowly, deliberate, and I know that look. Claire taught her that move—the subtle twist of her wrist, the shift of her weight.
I catch her eye for half a heartbeat, and I feel sick.
“Now, Lottie!” Claire shouts.
Lottie drives her elbow back, slamming into Tracey’s ribs. The gun slips in her hands, just barely. She spins, slamming her hands upward, knocking Tracey’s arm wide just as the gun goes off—one deafening crack that tears through the chaos.
Chapter 40
Archer
The sound of the gunshot echoes through the garden.
For a second, everything freezes. The air itself seems to stop moving. Then I see it—blood blooming across white silk, soaking into the lace at Lottie’s side.
“Lottie!” Roman’s voice breaks like something shattering inside him. He’s already running before I can move, crashing through fallen chairs and debris to reach her. He catches her as she stumbles, hands frantically searching for the wound. “No, no, no, baby. This can’t happen—” he chokes. “I’m not losing you before I get to say I love you. Not yet.”
Lottie blinks up at him, wide-eyed, dazed, then looks to all of us surrounding her, tears in our eyes. Then, to everyone’s complete confusion, she lets out a tiny laugh—a small, breathless sound that shouldn’t exist in the middle of all of this chaos. “Roman,” she whispers. “It’s not mine. I’m okay.”
