Elena Vitiello POV:
The morning sun hit Fifth Avenue, turning the concrete into a river of gold. The sky over New York was a rare, piercing blue, entirely devoid of clouds.
The Outfit had completely locked down the street. A convoy of thirty armored black Rolls Royces glided toward St. Patrick's Cathedral, a massive display of muscle disguised as a wedding procession.
I sat in the back of the lead car. The minimalist silk gown hugged my curves, its long, diamond-dusted train spilling over the leather seats like a waterfall of ice. I looked down at my hands. I was no longer the bullied, discarded girl locked in a Chicago attic. I was the Queen of the East Coast.
Dante sat beside me in a bespoke black tuxedo. A single pink rose, matching my bouquet, was pinned to his lapel. He hadn’t looked out the window once. His intense, dark blue eyes were locked entirely on my face, burning with a singular, obsessive focus.
Outside, thousands of citizens and paparazzi pressed against the police barricades, their camera flashes strobing like lightning.
I turned away from the glass and offered Dante a calm, grounding smile. Dante reached over, taking my left hand. He pressed his lips to the heavy pink diamond on my finger, his breath warm against my skin. We didn't need words.
***
At the side entrance of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, near the damp, foul-smelling garbage chutes, Matteo pushed the rusted wheelchair through the shadows.
His cheap, ill-fitting thrift store suit was soaked with sweat. Every step he took forced the worn joint of his prosthetic leg to emit a sharp, agonizing squeak. He moved like a rat trying to scurry past a line of starving cats.
Luca shifted in the wheelchair, his five-year-old mind growing frustrated by the hunger gnawing at his stomach. He threw his dirty teddy bear into a puddle of stagnant water and began to whine loudly.
"No, Luca, please," Matteo whispered, panic strangling his voice. He dropped to his knees in the filthy water, snatched the wet bear, and shoved it back into Luca’s hands. He clamped a hand over Luca's mouth, his own body trembling violently.
A heavy boot stepped into the puddle. An Outfit perimeter guard drew his baton, glaring down at them. "Get the fuck out of here, trash."
Matteo’s hand shot out, desperately grabbing the guard's pant leg. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a scratched, stolen Rolex—the very last piece of his former life.
"Please," Matteo begged, his voice cracking. "Just ten minutes. In the back. Where no one can see."
The guard snatched the watch, inspecting the gold. He sneered, kicking Matteo squarely in the chest. Matteo fell backward into the mud.
"Back corner. Under the organ pipes," the guard spat. "You make a sound, I’ll shoot you both."
Matteo bit his lip until it bled, fighting the blinding pain in his stump. He dragged himself up, gripping the wheelchair handles, and pushed Luca through the heavy side doors into the pitch-black shadows beneath the grand pipe organ.
***
Inside the cathedral, the massive organ vibrated through the stone floors. Tens of thousands of imported Bulgarian red roses transformed the grand nave into a sea of blood and velvet.
The pews were packed with the most dangerous men in North America. Every boss, every politician on the payroll, held their breath as the music shifted.
The heavy carved wooden doors swung open. Sunlight poured into the church.
I stood in the center of the light, my hand resting on Julian’s arm. He had orchestrated the legal destruction of my enemies, and now he was walking me down the aisle.
The entire congregation stood up. At the altar, Dante stopped breathing. His chest expanded, his eyes darkening into a violent, consuming storm as he watched me approach.
Hidden behind a massive stone pillar in the darkest corner of the cathedral, Matteo clutched the cold stone. He peered through the small gap between the standing guests.
When he saw me—radiant, untouchable, bathed in light—Matteo’s heart literally stopped.
Tears instantly flooded his sunken eyes, spilling hot and fast down his filthy cheeks. He remembered a summer day years ago, when I had run toward him in a simple white sundress, smiling. He had pushed me away then. He had called me a burden.
Now, that smile belonged to a monster who treated me like a goddess.
Matteo shoved his own hand into his mouth, biting down hard on his knuckles to muffle his agonizing sobs. His teeth broke the skin. Warm, metallic blood flooded his tongue. The physical pain was nothing compared to the sensation of his soul being shredded into confetti.
Beside him, Luca saw the red roses. He clapped his hands and giggled loudly, drawing a disgusted look from a nearby enforcer.
I walked slowly down the long red carpet. Every step I took felt like a victory march.
Julian stopped at the altar. He placed my hand firmly into Dante’s. Dante’s fingers closed around mine like a steel trap.
The priest began to speak, his voice echoing in the sacred space.
In the back, Matteo slumped against the pillar, his body shaking uncontrollably. Phantom pain shot up his missing right leg, a cruel reminder of how utterly useless he was.
As the priest read the opening prayers, I tilted my head slightly. My peripheral vision swept the massive room, a predator's instinct scanning for anomalies.
My eyes cut through the crowd and landed precisely on the dark, damp corner beneath the organ.
Matteo felt the impact of my gaze like a bullet. His breath hitched. He wanted to hide, to shrink into the stone, but his greed kept him frozen. He stared back at me, his eyes begging, pleading for just a single ounce of pity.
"Elena, please, just look at me."
