The haunting lullaby from the music box was swallowed by the sudden, deep thrum of helicopter rotors. Searchlights from the black yachts in the bay began to sweep the Thorne Estate, turning the wedding’s romantic glow into a cold, clinical crime scene.
"Guests are panicking," Marcus reported, his earpiece crackling. "Local police have been told to stand down. Apparently, the D’Amici have 'Consular Immunity' for an emergency diplomatic transit."
"They’re not diplomats; they’re vultures," Isabella hissed, already pulling a small, silver pistol from her garter. "Lucian, if they step foot on this grass, I’m taking the shot."
"No," Elara said, her voice surprisingly calm. She looked at the emerald tiara on the table. "They want a scene. They want us to look like criminals so they can justify
