Chapter 2 - The Armor of Glass
The black armored limousine idled at the curb outside the cathedral, its engine purring with a low, predatory rumble.
Police sirens wailed in the distance, echoing through the concrete canyons of Boston’s financial district. Three black SUVs formed a protective wedge around the cathedral steps, blocking the view of the gathering press photographers and curious bystanders.
Matteo guided Victoria into the cavernous leather interior of the limousine before sliding in beside her.
The heavy door sealed shut with a vault-like thud, instantly cutting off the screech of sirens, the shouted questions of reporters, and the wailing protests of the wedding guests.
Victoria sat pressed against the far window, her ivory veil torn and crooked, her chest heaving as she clutched the thumb drive against her silk bodice.
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded, her voice shaking violently with shock and fury.
Matteo reached out, his hand moving deliberately and slowly so she could see every inch of his motion.
He reached for the heavy diamond necklace around her throat.
Victoria flinched backward, slapping at his fingers. “Don't touch me!”
“Sit still, Victoria,” he said, his tone entirely calm and authoritative. “And take a breath.”
He slid his fingers beneath the cold stones at the nape of her neck, locating the platinum clasp.
With a deft twist, he released the lock. The heavy diamond necklace slipped from her collarbones, pooling into his large palm.
Matteo held the jewelry up to the soft recessed lighting of the limousine roof.
He reached into his pocket for a slim utility blade and popped the back casing of the central emerald-cut diamond.
Inside the hollowed platinum setting sat a micro-transmitter, barely larger than a grain of rice, with a microscopic red diode pulsing steadily in the dark.
Victoria’s breath caught in her throat. Her hand flew to her throat where the cold stones had rested against her pulse for three hours.
“He told me it was an heirloom,” she whispered, her eyes wide with mounting horror. “He said his mother wore it at her wedding.”
“It’s a military-grade GPS locator linked to a private server in Dublin,” Matteo said, dropping the entire multi-million-dollar necklace onto the floorboard.
He lifted his heavy boot and brought his heel down on the center stone.
The platinum crumpled. The transmitter shattered into tiny fragments of silicon and glass with a sharp crunch.
“Arthur didn't give you jewelry, Victoria,” Matteo continued, leaning back into the leather upholstery. “He gave you a tracking collar. He knew William’s investigators had reached out to my harbor masters before the accident, and he was terrified you might find where your father buried the paper trail.”
Tears burned behind Victoria’s eyes, hot and bitter, finally spilling over her lashes and running down her pale cheeks.
Six months.
She had cried on Arthur’s shoulder. She had allowed him to hold her hands during the memorial service when the empty casket was lowered into the family plot.
She had thanked him for paying off Kensington Freight’s emergency payroll when the banks froze their liquidity lines.
“My father loved him,” Victoria sobbed, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently under the layers of bridal silk. “Arthur was his college roommate. He was named my godfather when I was three years old.”
“Greed doesn't care about godparents, Victoria,” Matteo said softly, his voice losing its harsh, commanding edge.
He reached across the console, picked up a clean linen handkerchief, and offered it to her.
Victoria looked up at the man sitting opposite her.
For years, the newspapers had branded Matteo Falcone as a ruthless harbor kingpin, a shadow businessman who ran the Atlantic maritime corridors with an iron fist and answered to no laws but his own.
Yet right now, his eyes held none of the slick, patronizing pity Arthur had practiced so carefully.
There was only cold, unvarnished truth.
“Why did you wait until the altar?” Victoria asked, wiping the mascara from her cheeks with trembling fingers. “Why didn't you come to me three months ago?”
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Matteo looked out the tinted window as the limousine accelerated onto the harbor expressway, leaving the cathedral behind.
“Because three months ago, you would have called Arthur to verify my story,” Matteo answered simply. “And Arthur would have ensured your car had the same electrical fire that sank your father’s yacht.”
