Chapter 6 - Blood at the Altar
Saturday morning arrived under a pale gray autumn sky that cast dramatic shadows across the twin spires of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
Fifth Avenue had been shut down for six blocks by private security contractors and city police. Hundreds of photographers, reporters, and curious onlookers were held back behind reinforced steel barricades as a fleet of fifty black armored sedans lined the curb.
Inside the cathedral, the air was thick with the scent of white gardenias, burning frankincense, and ancient stone.
Over four hundred guests filled the carved wooden pews: high-ranking city officials, federal judges, foreign consuls, and the undisputed heads of the five New York crime syndicates, all dressed in formal black-tie attire.
In the very front pew on the groom’s side sat Don Carmine Moretti.
He was a thick-necked, seventy-year-old patriarch with slicked-back silver hair, cold reptilian eyes, and a diamond pinky ring that caught the candlelight like a drop of ice. He looked relaxed, a condescending smirk playing on his lips as he whispered to his personal bodyguards.
When the massive pipe organ thundered with the opening chords of the bridal march, the heavy bronze doors swung open.
A collective gasp echoed through the cavernous cathedral as I stepped onto the red carpet.
The silk gown flowed behind me like liquid silver, the veil framing my face in delicate lace. My posture was straight, my chin held high, my eyes locked entirely onto Alessandro waiting at the end of the long aisle.
Alessandro stood beside the altar in a bespoke midnight-black tuxedo, looking towering, lethal, and undeniably magnificent. He didn't blink; his gray eyes tracked every step I took as if I were the only living soul in the sanctuary.
As I passed Don Carmine’s pew, the old man leaned slightly forward, his lips curling into an audible sneer.
“A pretty little bird from the gutter,” Carmine murmured in Italian, loud enough for the first three rows to hear. “Let’s see how long she chirps before her neck snaps.”
I didn't break my stride. I didn't flinch.
I reached the marble steps of the altar, where Alessandro extended his hand. His fingers were warm, steady, and solid as iron as they closed around mine.
“You look like a queen,” he murmured under his breath as the priest raised his hands.
The ceremony proceeded with solemn, ancient ritual until the exchange of vows.
When the priest asked if anyone present had just cause why this union should not proceed, the double doors at the rear of the cathedral creaked open.
A heavy silence descended upon the congregation as Don Carmine slowly rose to his feet from the front pew.
“I have an objection, Father,” Carmine’s booming, gravelly voice echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
The organist stopped playing mid-note. Several guards near the side chapels subtly reached beneath their jackets.
Alessandro didn't let go of my hand, but his shoulder muscles bunched into steel coils. He turned slowly toward his uncle, his expression dropping into a mask of pure, absolute murder.
“Speak carefully, Uncle,” Alessandro warned, his voice low and dangerous as rolling thunder. “You are standing on holy ground.”
Carmine chuckled, stepping out into the center aisle with his hands in his pockets.
“I only question the bloodline of the future Donna of the Moretti family,” Carmine announced, gesturing toward me with open disdain.
“Our syndicate laws require a bride of honorable heritage. This girl is the daughter of a traitorous dock worker named Mateo Russo, who was executed ten years ago for embezzling five million dollars from our maritime accounts.”
A wave of shocked murmurs rippled through the pews. Several syndicate capos leaned forward, exchanging uneasy glances.
Carmine smiled with predatory triumph, believing he had delivered the ultimate public humiliation that would force Alessandro to annul the marriage or lose his standing among the families.
I stepped forward before Alessandro could speak, slipping my hand from his grip to walk down the altar steps.
I stopped three paces from Don Carmine, looking down at the man who had ordered my father’s execution.
“My father never embezzled a single dime, Carmine,” I said, my voice carrying clearly through the massive stone hall without a microphone.
Carmine laughed loudly. “And what proof does a little waitress have against the ledger of the Commission?”
I reached beneath the folds of my silk gown and pulled out a small, antique silver flash drive that Julian Vance had retrieved from my father’s hidden safety deposit box in Zurich forty-eight hours earlier.
“I don't have a ledger, Carmine,” I said, turning toward the federal judges and syndicate bosses seated in the front rows.
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“I have the audio recordings from the night of November 14th. The night you ordered your hitmen to shoot Bianca Moretti and frame my father because she refused to sign over her trust fund.”
Carmine’s confident smirk evaporated into pure, bone-chilling terror.
