Chapter 4 - The Altar of Truth
Saturday morning at St. Patrick's Old Cathedral was a spectacle of power and wealth.
Black limousines lined Mulberry Street, their engines idling beneath the stone gargoyles. Two hundred guests packed the mahogany pews beneath soaring vaulted ceilings draped in hundreds of cascading white roses. The scent of frankincense and expensive perfume hung heavy in the air. Capos in tailored three-piece suits rubbed shoulders with high-court judges and port commissioners, their eyes scanning the perimeter with professional paranoia.
At the front of the altar stood Roman Vale.
He wore a bespoke black tuxedo, his posture rigid as a monolith, his face carved from dark granite. But anyone who looked closely at his eyes could see the terrifying, hollow abyss behind them. He had found the folder at 5:00 a.m.
He hadn't slept. He hadn't called off the wedding. He had stood there for hours, the realization of his monumental, arrogant stupidity clawing through his chest like a pack of wolves. Every time he had silenced me, every time he had dismissed my intuition, every time he had run to the side of a woman who was actively selling his life for pennies on the dollar—it had all been exposed under the cold fluorescent light of cold evidence.
In the third row on the bride's side, Celeste Arden sat wearing an elegant lavender dress, nervously twisting a pearl ring around her finger, casting anxious glances toward the heavy wooden doors at the back of the cathedral.
The organist struck the opening chords of the bridal march.
The heavy oak doors swung inward.
The entire congregation stood in unison, turning their heads toward the entrance to catch the first glimpse of the bride.
The aisle remained empty.
A murmur rippled through the pews like a sudden gust of wind. Whispers rose in hushed, shocked tones. Capos exchanged uneasy glances. Dominic Moretti, seated discreetly near the back row, straightened his tie, a subtle smirk playing across his lips as he signaled to two men stationed near the side exit.
Then, a clear, resonant voice cut through the organ music.
"Looking for me, Celeste?"
I stepped through the side vestry door near the front of the altar, wearing not a white lace wedding gown, but a sharp, tailored black pantsuit that commanded every scrap of light in the sanctuary. My hair was pulled back into a sleek, severe chignon. My face was bare of bridal blush, radiant only with cold, absolute clarity.
The cathedral went dead silent. The organist's hands froze above the keys.
Celeste turned pale as chalk, rising half an inch from her pew. "Evelyn? What... what is this?"
Roman didn't look at the crowd. He turned slowly toward me, his gray eyes burning with an agony so profound it seemed to age him a decade. "Evelyn..."
"Sit down, Celeste," Roman's voice boomed across the marble arches, vibrating with a lethal, terrifying power that made the armed men in the pews instinctively flinch.
Before Dominic Moretti could reach inside his jacket, six plainclothes federal agents, accompanied by Roman's most trusted security lieutenants, stepped out from the confessionals and the choir loft, their weapons drawn and leveled directly at Moretti and his associates.
"Dominic Moretti," an agent announced, stepping down the center aisle. "You and your associates are under arrest for conspiracy, interstate racketeering, and corporate espionage."
Panic erupted in the back rows as Moretti's men were disarmed and slammed face-first against the stone pillars.
Celeste tried to bolt toward the side exit, but two of Roman's guards blocked the archway, their expressions made of iron. She backed away, trembling, looking wildly between Dominic in handcuffs and Roman standing at the altar.
"Roman, please!" Celeste shrieked, tears of raw terror spilling over her mascara. "He threatened to kill me! He forced me to do it! You know me, Roman! You know I wouldn't hurt you! Remember the gym? Remember what we were?"
Roman walked down the altar steps, his polished dress shoes clicking rhythmically against the stone floor. He stopped three feet from her. He looked down at the woman he had spent seven months defending against his own fiancée. There was no rage in his eyes. There was only a vast, desolate emptiness.
"I remember," Roman whispered, his voice cutting through the silent sanctuary like a guillotine. "I remember that I broke the law for a girl who grew up to sell my life for twelve million dollars. And I remember that the only woman who ever truly protected me walked out of my house this morning because I was too blind to see her value."
He looked at his guards. "Hand her to the feds with the rest of Moretti's garbage."
May you like
Celeste was dragged through the center doors, sobbing and screaming his name, but Roman never looked back. He turned toward the altar, searching desperately for me.
The vestry door was already swinging shut. I was gone.
