I glance at the priest, hoping I imagined him out of wedding nerves. But there he is. He doesn’t look like a priest; he looks like Zia Teresa’s forever crush, Elvis. He has the same razor cheekbones, sneering mouth, and bright blue eyes. If his golden hair was black, he’d be a dead ringer. I sneak a peek at my bridesmaids. They’re staring at the priest too, but none of them look worried. Margot’s cheeks are pink, and Penelope is running a finger over her lips.

I reach the base of the marble altar, my bridal smile glued to my face. Someone—Sadie?—takes my bouquet and Mr. Parker steps toward me, his pale eyes scrunched in skin. “January. Finally.”

He holds out a hand and I wish I’d run. To the train station. To Starbucks. To anywhere. I think of the St. Christopher medal and pray that someone will help me.

A crashing roar tears through the air, and I stagger backward, my ears ringing. The walls are shaking and the carpet moves beneath my feet. I’ve done this. I wished on St. Christopher and now he’s bringing down the cathedral.

All around me people are screaming, pushing, running, knocking over pews, and crashing into each other. Mom. Giuseppina. Strangers. Hats fall, mouths freeze into wide O’s. Mr. Parker is balled up in front of the altar, his tuxedo’s arms over his face. I whirl around looking for his security team. For Theodore and Kurt. For anyone. A rough palm closes over my mouth, another around my waist. “You’re coming with me.”

A man is touching me. A man is touching my mouth. I try to scream but the sound is swallowed by his palm.

“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses in my ear.

The arm gripping me has white and gold sleeves. It’s Father Monastero. My stomach knots. Are priests allowed to curse? He drags me backward past the altar and toward the tabernacle. His arms are hard with muscle, and his cologne is heady, almost boozy. My blood turns to ice. A priest might swear in an emergency, but he’d never, ever, smell like that.

I pull at the gold-lined sleeve. Wrapped around his wrist is a snake tattoo, its fangs dripping black blood. “You’re not a priest.”

He laughs in my ear. “Nice work, idiot.”

I struggle as I’m dragged through a small door at the back of the cathedral, kicking his shins and tossing my head, trying to bash his nose.

“Bitch!” He lifts me off my feet as easily as if I’m a doll and carries me into the room. The door slams shut, and he drops me like I used to drop my schoolbag. I hit the carpet gasping for breath. The room is small, the walls covered in bookshelves and priest robes. Father Monastero’s blue eyes glitter down at me. “Don’t move.”

A second explosion rumbles the cathedral. The floor shakes and heavy books fall from the walls. It must be terrorists. Men who want to kill the senator or the princess or uncle Benedict. How many bombs do they have? Are we all going to die? I think of Zia Teresa and her small, beautiful face. Thank God she’s not here, thank—