Chapter 9 - The Baptism of the Princess
Six months after that fateful winter night, the spring afternoon sun was shining brightly over St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Midtown Manhattan.
Fifth Avenue had been secured by private security details as dozens of black sedans lined the perimeter of the historic church.
Inside the grand sanctuary, the air was sweet with the scent of white gardenias, burning beeswax candles, and ancient stone.
Nearly three hundred people filled the wooden pews: high-ranking corporate directors, municipal officials, labor union leaders, and the undisputed heads of the five New York families, all dressed in formal attire to pay their respects to the Maro dynasty.
Standing at the marble baptismal font was Cardinal Rossi, dressed in his ceremonial white vestments.
Beside the font stood Nicholas, looking magnificent in a tailored dark blue suit, holding Lily securely in his arms.
Lily, now six months old and bursting with joyful, vibrant energy, wore an exquisite hand-sewn antique lace christening gown that had been brought over from an artisan convent in Florence.
Her bright blue eyes were wide with wonder as she giggled, trying to grab the golden pectoral cross hanging from the Cardinal's neck.
I stood beside Nicholas in a tailored ivory silk dress, my heart overflowing with a peace so profound that it felt like an eternal sanctuary.
Cardinal Rossi dipped his fingers into the holy water, blessing my daughter's forehead with the sign of the cross.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” the Cardinal announced, his voice reverberating through the soaring stone arches. “I baptize you, Lily Maro Sullivan. May your life be shielded by love, walked in courage, and crowned with honor.”
Nicholas closed his eyes for a brief, solemn moment, pressing a tender kiss to the top of Lily’s dark curls.
The entire cathedral erupted into a soft, reverent murmur of applause as Nicholas turned to present his daughter to the assembly.
Every hardened mobster, every corporate executive, and every civic leader in the pews rose to their feet in a unified standing ovation, bowing their heads in deep, unquestioning respect to the young heiress who held the heart of the city's undisputed king.
Nonna Rosa stood in the front row, wiping joyful tears from her wrinkled cheeks with a lace handkerchief, smiling proudly at the man Nicholas had become.
After the ceremony, we walked down the grand center aisle together, stepping through the massive bronze doors out onto the sunlit cathedral steps.
The flashes of hundreds of press photographers strobed against the stone, capturing the breathtaking image of New York’s most powerful family standing sovereign in the light.
Nicholas wrapped his free arm around my waist, pulling me close against his side, his thumb lightly caressing my hip.
“You look like an angel today, Ava,” he whispered into my ear, his baritone voice sending a delightful shiver across my skin.
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“And you look like a very proud father, Mr. Maro,” I replied, looking up into his piercing gray eyes with unfiltered adoration.
“I am not just a proud father, Ava,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips. “Tonight, I intend to ask your permission to become something much more.”
