“Because my firm is not a private equity fund.”
Ethan turned forty-five degrees toward the rear of the chapel:
“**Chancellor on deck!**” Ethan boomed.
The heavy double doors of the narthex swung inward on their oiled brass hinges.
Walking through the threshold, flanked by two armed federal marshals in dark tactical suits, was my mother’s real wedding gown.
The hand-embroidered silk train flowed six feet behind me, pristine, snow-white, catching the morning sunlight pouring through the stained-glass rose window. On my left shoulder, pinned with a solid-gold anchor clasp, hung the three-strand silver naval aiguillette of the **Sovereign Admiralty Chancery**.
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Beside me walked our family protector: Barnaby.
The eighty-pound Belgian Malinois trotted down the center aisle at my right knee, his dark, scarred muzzle held high, his amber eyes locked onto Vanessa Reed’s throat with silent, predatory discipline.
The guests in the pews rose to their feet in synchronized, breathless awe.
