I ran from the altar with my veil in one hand and my father's blood-debt contract in the other.
Behind me, three hundred guests went silent as the church doors slammed open to rain.
I had stolen a car key, a fake passport, and six minutes of freedom.
The black SUV waiting at the curb was exactly where my cousin promised it would be.
I opened the back door and froze.
Dante Moretti sat inside in his wedding suit, one arm stretched across the leather seat like a throne.
My groom. My buyer. The man I had just humiliated in front of every crime family on the East Coast.
He looked at the passport in my shaking hand and smiled.
"Good girl," Dante said. "You found the exit I left for you."