Chapter 8 - The Cleansing
The federal indictments fell upon the Bellini syndicate like an avalanche.
Within seventy-two hours of Isabelle Bellini’s arrest, the Department of Justice seized thirty-eight commercial properties, four private airstrips, and six hundred million dollars in frozen offshore accounts.
Vincent Bellini was arrested by federal tactical agents at an airfield in Nassau as he attempted to board a private charter to Venezuela.
The trial was never going to happen; facing three consecutive life sentences at the federal supermax in Colorado, Vincent suffered a massive coronary event in his holding cell within forty-eight hours of extradition, ending the Bellini bloodline forever.
The city belonged to the Morettis.
Two months later, the first heavy snows of December transformed Chicago into an immaculate, glittering white wonderland.
Elena stood in the grand ballroom of the Moretti estate.
The shattered crystal and stained carpets from the night Isabelle had cut her hair had been completely replaced. The ballroom had been restored to its historic Gilded Age glory, decorated with thousands of white winter roses, fragrant evergreen garlands, and delicate silver ribbons.
She wore an off-the-shoulder gown of heavy ivory silk duchess satin, tailored to perfection, with a dramatic cathedral-length train edged in vintage Chantilly lace.
Her hair had grown into an exquisite, glossy bob that brushed the nape of her neck, secured by a tiara of black platinum and diamonds—the heirloom of the Moretti dynasty.
The double doors opened.
Marta, dressed in an elegant navy lace dress, stepped into the bridal suite, tears brimming in her kind, wrinkled eyes.
“It is time, Donna Elena,” the older woman whispered, her voice trembling with joy. “The cardinal is waiting at the altar. Five hundred guests are seated in the cathedral.”
Elena looked at her reflection in the gilded mirror.
Six months ago, she had been kneeling on this very floor, bleeding into her maid’s apron, listening to a cruel woman tell her she was nothing.
Now, she was about to marry the king of the city.
She turned to Marta, taking the elderly housekeeper’s hands into her own. “Thank you, Marta. For keeping me alive when I was too proud to ask for help.”
“You were never just a maid to us, child,” Marta said, kissing Elena’s knuckles. “We all knew who you were. We were just waiting for Damian to open his eyes.”
The Cathedral of the Holy Name on State Street was an ocean of black tuxedos, designer gowns, and heavy security details.
Every capo from the Five Families, every federal judge who knew which way the wind blew, and the mayor himself sat in the carved mahogany pews beneath the soaring gothic arches.
When the massive bronze doors opened and the organ roared with the wedding march, every person in the cathedral stood.
Elena walked down the long, red-carpeted nave alone.
She did not need an escort to give her away. Her father’s spirit walked beside her in the blood that flowed through her veins.
At the altar stood Damian Moretti.
He wore a formal black morning suit with a white silk cravat. His posture was military, commanding, and absolute. But when his dark eyes locked onto Elena as she glided down the aisle, the terrifying mafia boss completely dissolved.
His throat worked. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
When she reached the altar steps, Damian stepped down to meet her. He did not wait for the cardinal’s prompt; he reached out, took both of her trembling, gloved hands into his own, and lifted them to his lips, kissing her knuckles with profound, public reverence.
“You are my life, Elena,” he whispered, his voice carrying clearly to the first ten rows of stunned mob bosses and politicians. “My past, my present, and my sovereign.”
Tears of pure, blinding joy spilled over Elena’s eyelashes, tracking down her radiant cheeks.
“And you are my anchor, Damian,” she replied softly. “In the dark, and in the light.”
The cardinal spoke the ancient Latin vows, blessing the rings.
When Damian slid the platinum wedding band beside the blood-red ruby on Elena’s finger, a collective, reverent silence settled over the cathedral.
“By the authority vested in me,” the cardinal announced, “I pronounce you husband and wife. Don Damian… you may kiss your Donna.”
Damian pulled Elena into his arms, lifting her slightly off the marble floor as his mouth captured hers in a deep, passionate, unyielding kiss that sealed their covenant before God, the law, and the underworld.
May you like
The cathedral erupted in thunderous applause.
Outside, the church bells began to toll across the snowy streets of Chicago, announcing to the entire city that the reign of Elena Vasquez-Moretti had officially begun.
