“Stay still.” I stick the gun in my waistband and take out the razor. “You’re going to feel some pressure.”

“What are—” His eyes widen when I put the blade to the bend in his thumb. “No!”

“Stay still or I’ll slit your throat.”

“Please!”

Pulling the razor upward, I slice through skin and tendon, scraping bone as he screams with whatever air the weight of my knee lets into his lungs. When he gasps for air, I hear a loud pop and the tinkling of broken glass from the hallway.

His screams have turned to sobs when I hit the middle of the pad of his thumb.

“Poor baby,” I grumble, sawing away the last bit of gristle, careful to avoid getting too much blood on the print.

“What are you doing?” Oria’s feet are bloody. She didn’t think ahead and jump over the glass.

“Getting us out of here.”

“Oh God, oh God,” the doctor sobs.

“This guy’s a fucking dick.” She smacks open a drawer and finds a revolver. “These dumbasses don’t have a gun cabinet.”

I barely hear her over the doctor’s screams. When the fingerprint is separated from its original owner, I stand, and press it to the pad, and the red light turns to green. I push down the lever, and the door unlatches. I check on Oria. She’s ready.

“You first,” I say.

I exit behind her and close the door. Let the good doctor figure out how to open it without a thumbprint.

I have a wedding to interrupt.

Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27

SARAH

The sound comes at the first drop of blood. It’s just a rustle. A sigh. The grunt an old man makes when he reaches down to pick up his glasses.

No one seems to notice it. Guns stay in holsters. The hands of the bride and groom remain linked. Father Martino continues the cut.

Sergio, however, tenses like a cat.

“Don’t move, cookiepuss.” With his free hand, he reaches into his jacket, and just by the way he does it, I know he’s not getting out his handkerchief.

I back up, ready to turn and run. No plan, no goal, no end point. Just away from him. But he tightens his fingers like vises. I’ll have to chew my arm off to get away.

When Sergio pulls out his gun, Father Martino stops cutting, freezing the knife before it opens Sergio’s skin.

A woman screams. A thud. Another cry.

“Cut it!” Sergio barks in Father Martino’s face.

“In the name of God.” He presses down the blade.

A blossom of red crowns the back of the priest’s head, and he drops to the floor. The gunshot’s single report happens over and over. More screaming. Running. Chaos streams from the north side of the chamber, toward where we stand in the center. Massimo draws his weapon and heads into the fray.