The helicopter blades slice through the humid night air, drowning out the sound of the ocean below. We touch down on a concrete pad surrounded by black water.
There are no lights here. No city glow. Just the moon and the jagged silhouette of a stone villa perched on the cliff edge.
"Move," Stavros commands, pulling me out of the chopper before the rotors even stop spinning.
He drags me across the tarmac, his grip on my hand tight enough to crush bone. We are covered in dust from the church explosion.
My wedding dress is gray with soot, the hem ripped and muddied. Stavros’s tuxedo is torn at the shoulder, his white shirt stained with blood that isn't his. We look like ghosts fleeing a graveyard.
He kicks the heavy front door open and slams it shut behind us, throwing the deadbolt wit
