Chapter 8 - HOLY NAME CATHEDRAL
The bells of Holy Name Cathedral tolled twelve heavy, resonant chimes that echoed across the rain-drenched streets of downtown Chicago.
The limousine pulled up to the grand stone steps. Hundreds of onlookers, paparazzi, and umbrella-carrying spectators were cordoned off by city police. Flashbulbs strobed against the dark sky like miniature lightning strikes.
Luca’s security team formed a tight phalanx around me as I stepped out, holding the massive veil tightly against the wind.
Inside the cathedral, the air was warm, smelling of frankincense, beeswax, and damp wool. The organ roared to life with Wagner's Bridal Chorus, its deep bass vibrating through the stone floor and rattling the teeth in my jaw.
I stood at the back of the nave, beneath the great gothic archway.
Down the long, red-carpeted aisle, Luca was waiting at the altar. He stood tall, straight-backed, his hands clasped before him. The pews were filled with two hundred men and women in formal attire—the absolute royalty of the American underworld.
None of them knew the woman beneath the veil was the girl who had served them soup four nights ago.
The organ reached its crescendo.
I took my first step.
One.
My heels clicked softly against the stone.
Two.
I kept my injured left hand tucked behind the bouquet of white lilies, my right hand resting lightly against the fabric where the Glock pressed against my thigh.
Three.
Halfway down the aisle, I noticed the subtle anomalies.
The ushers stationed by the confessionals weren't watching the bride. Their hands were inside their tuxedo jackets, their eyes scanning the high, vaulted shadows of the ceiling.
Then, as I passed the tenth pew, my peripheral vision caught a flicker of movement in the southern transept.
A figure dressed in the black cassock of a priest was stepping out from the vestry door.
He didn't have a bible.
He was carrying an automatic submachine gun concealed beneath a black wool shawl.
Through the sheer lace of my veil, I saw his face beneath the dim candlelight of the votive stands.
It was Marco.
He had bypassed the perimeter by using the underground parish catacombs. He wasn't waiting for the vows. He was positioning himself to hose down the altar from thirty feet away.
Time dilated. The organ music seemed to slow to a sluggish drone.
I looked toward the altar. Luca’s eyes were locked on me, but his gaze flicked toward the transept—he had spotted the shadow. But the cathedral priest standing beside Luca was directly in Marco’s line of fire. If Luca drew his weapon, the priest would take the first burst.
DO IT BEFORE HE SAYS I DO.
The words from the note burned in my mind.
I didn't scream. I didn't drop to the floor.
With a motion that tore three yards of antique French lace, I ripped the veil off my head, dropped the bouquet of lilies, and drew the compact Glock from the folds of my wedding skirt.
Gasps tore through the pews. Syndicate bosses jumped to their feet.
"Marco!" I shouted, my voice ringing off the stone vaults like a gunshot.
May you like
Marco turned toward the sound, his eyes widening in pure, disbelieving horror as he saw my face instead of Vanessa’s. "What the—"
I brought the gun up with both hands, ignoring the sharp, blinding flare of pain in my injured left wrist, and pulled the trigger.
