Chapter 4 - The Altar of Vengeance
St. Jude’s Cathedral was a cavernous masterpiece of gothic architecture, its soaring stained-glass windows casting long, violet shadows across the polished marble floors. Hundreds of elite guests—underworld bosses, corrupt politicians, and high-society socialites—sat in hushed, reverent silence beneath the vaulted ceilings, waiting for the ceremony to begin.
At the front of the altar stood Marello Vitali.
He wore a custom black tuxedo, his posture razor-straight, his face carved from cold, unyielding granite. He didn't look like a nervous groom preparing for the happiest day of his life. He looked like an executioner waiting for the trapdoor to drop.
Beside him stood Father Thomas, looking visibly shaken as he nervously clutched his Bible, sensing the suffocating, electric tension crackling through the heavy air.
The massive wooden cathedral doors swung slowly open.
The organ swelled into a grand, sweeping processional march.
Down the central aisle walked Bianca Moretti, radiant and smiling, her arm linked through her father Viktor’s. Flashbulbs popped silently from hidden press cameras, capturing the fairytale wedding of the century.
Marello watched them approach. His dark eyes remained completely devoid of warmth, fixed entirely on Bianca’s face. He could see the subtle smugness in her smile, the dangerous glint of triumph in her eyes.
As they reached the altar, Viktor Moretti stepped back, giving his daughter a proud, conspiratorial nod before taking his seat in the front pew.
Bianca stepped up to stand directly opposite Marello, her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm. Up close, her perfume—heavy jasmine and crushed amber—hung thick in the air.
“You look breathtaking, Marello,” Bianca whispered softly, her voice dripping with calculated sweetness. “Are you ready for forever?”
Marello looked down at her, his expression a mask of absolute stillness. “Forever is a very long time, Bianca. Especially when you spend it paying for your sins.”
A micro-second of confusion flickered across Bianca’s face, but she quickly masked it with a light laugh. “What on earth is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Marello said, his voice dropping into a deep, resonant register that carried effortlessly across the silent front pews, “that the ceremony is going to be slightly delayed. We have a guest arriving.”
Before Bianca could respond, the heavy cathedral doors at the back slammed open with a loud, resounding crash.
The organ music cut off instantly.
Every head in the congregation snapped backward.
Down the central aisle walked Elena.
She wore a striking, elegant emerald-green coat, her head held high, walking with the fierce, unyielding grace of a queen reclaiming her throne. Flanking her on either side were four heavily armed Vitali syndicate enforcers in tactical gear, their assault rifles held at the ready.
And walking right beside Elena, holding her hand with a small, confident stride, was little Leo.
A collective, deafening gasp erupted through the cathedral. Wealthy socialites stood up from their velvet pews, whispering frantically. In the front row, Viktor Moretti turned around—and the color instantly drained entirely from his face, leaving him looking like a corpse carved from stone.
Bianca’s hand flew away from Marello’s arm as if she had been burned by hot iron. She stared down the aisle, her eyes bulging in sheer, unadulterated horror.
“No...” Bianca choked out, her voice trembling violently. “No, that’s impossible... they’re dead... they’re supposed to be dead!”
Elena and Leo stopped right at the foot of the altar stairs. Leo looked up at Marello with a bright, fearless smile, giving his father a tiny, reassuring wave.
Marello looked down at his son, and for the first time all day, a genuine, terrifyingly tender smile broke across his face.
Then he turned his cold, dead-winter gaze back toward the bride.
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“Surprise, Bianca,” Marello whispered, his voice echoing off the high stone pillars like rolling thunder. “Welcome to my wedding.”
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