Chapter 9 - The Requiem of St. Catherine’s
Six months later. May in Chicago.
The city had broken free from the grip of winter with an explosion of brilliant sunshine, green canopy across Lincoln Park, and the sweet, heavy scent of blooming lilacs drifting off the lake.
The grand cathedral of St. Catherine’s in Little Italy was bathed in the warm, multicolored glow of fifty stained-glass windows.
Beneath the soaring vaulted ceilings, nearly three hundred people filled the carved oak pews: union dockworkers in clean suits, city councilmen who had learned to respect the law, retired seamstresses from the neighborhood, and the senior captains of the Moretti organization who now operated strictly within legitimate maritime logistics and real estate development.
At the grand pipe organ in the choir loft, Samuel Bennett sat with his spine straight as steel, his gnarled, eighty-year-old fingers dancing across the ivory keys, filling the cavernous cathedral with the rich, triumphant chords of Bach’s Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.
I stood at the back of the center aisle, wearing a simple, breathtaking ivory silk gown with delicate lace sleeves, holding a bouquet of fresh white hydrangeas and dark red roses—Isabella Moretti’s favorite flowers.
Beside me stood my father, dressed in a tailored navy suit, his cheeks flushed with healthy color, holding my arm with trembling, proud fingers.
“You look like an angel, sweetheart,” my father whispered, kissing my temple. “Your mother is looking down from heaven right now, crying her eyes out.”
“I love you, Dad,” I smiled, squeezing his arm.
The organ chords shifted into the slow, majestic progression of the bridal march.
The heavy bronze doors of the cathedral opened, and the sunlight poured down the center aisle, illuminating the altar eighty feet away.
Standing before the priest, dressed in an immaculate charcoal-gray morning suit with a white rose pinned to his lapel, was Luca Moretti.
He stood tall, broad-shouldered, radiating an aura of absolute, unassailable power, but when his gray eyes met mine across the length of the church, his face softened into an expression of such fierce, overwhelming devotion that my breath caught in my throat.
Beside him stood Daniel, holding the antique platinum wedding band that had belonged to Luca’s grandmother.
I walked down the aisle, my heels clicking softly on the marble, each step leaving behind the poverty, the bruises, and the shadows of the past.
When my father placed my hand into Luca’s, the large, warm fingers of the mafia Don closed over mine like an iron fortress. He leaned down, his lips brushing my knuckles, his eyes burning with a promise that needed no words.
“You are breathtaking, Mrs. Moretti,” Luca whispered.
“I haven't said I do yet, Mr. Moretti,” I teased softly, my heart overflowing with joy.
“You will,” he smiled, the rare, boyish smirk transforming his handsome face. “I never lose a contract.”
The ceremony was magnificent, sacred, and brief.
When the priest announced our union before God and the city of Chicago, Luca didn't wait. He pulled me into his arms, cupping the back of my head, and crushed his lips to mine in front of three hundred cheering guests, sealing our future beneath the stained glass and the thunderous roar of Samuel’s organ.
The reception that followed at the Gold Coast mansion was a world away from the toxic, performative engagement dinner of the previous autumn.
The tables were covered in homemade Sicilian pastries, roast lamb, and sweet wine; the servants sat beside the guests as equals; and the sound of children laughing echoed across the manicured lawns.
By sunset, the guests had moved out onto the marble terrace overlooking Lake Michigan, watching the turquoise water turn to molten copper under the dying sun.
I stood by the stone balustrade, holding a glass of sparkling water, feeling the cool lake breeze tug at the hem of my silk gown.
A pair of strong, familiar arms wrapped around my waist from behind.
Luca pulled me back against his broad chest, resting his chin on the crown of my head, his scent of cedarwood, rain, and clean soap enveloping me in absolute peace.
“Are you happy, Emily?” he murmured, his voice rumbling against my spine.
“I didn't know a person could be this happy, Luca,” I whispered, leaning my head back against his shoulder. “It feels like a dream. Like I’m going to wake up in Bridgeport with a split lip and a bucket of soapy water.”
Luca turned me around in his arms, his thumb gently tracing the faint, silvery line on my lower lip—the small scar that had brought us together.
“You will never wake up in the cold again, my love,” Luca said softly. “You are the queen of this house.”
Before I could answer, Daniel stepped through the terrace French doors.
His face was carefully neutral, but his posture carried that familiar, sharp military alertness that signaled business. In his hand, he held a small, antique wooden box bound in tarnished brass straps, charred at the edges as if it had been pulled from an old fire.
“Boss,” Daniel murmured, stepping to the edge of the balustrade.
Luca kept his arm locked firmly around my waist, turning his head slightly. “What is it, Daniel? The evening belongs to my wife.”
“I know, sir,” Daniel said quietly, his eyes darting between Luca and me. “A courier just delivered this to the front gate. From the Cook County Department of Corrections.”
Luca frowned. “Vanessa?”
“No, boss,” Daniel replied, taking a slow breath. “Vanessa Bellini was transferred to the federal penitentiary in Pekin this morning. This didn't come from her.”
Daniel set the charred wooden box on the stone table between us.
“It was found this afternoon inside the personal property locker of Vincent Bellini following his suicide in his holding cell at the federal courthouse,” Daniel whispered.
The air on the terrace suddenly went dead still.
Luca looked at the charred box, then down at me.
With a steady, deliberate hand, Luca reached out and lifted the heavy brass latch.
The lid swung open on creaking, rusted hinges.
Inside, resting on a bed of dry, yellowed velvet, lay a second, unopened cassette tape, dated October fourteenth, nineteen-ninety-six—the exact day Michael Moretti was born.
And beside the tape lay a faded hospital footprint card from St. Jude’s Memorial, stamped with the footprints of two newborn twin boys.
Underneath the card, in Vincent Bellini’s jagged, dying handwriting, was a final, single sentence written on a scrap of prison paper:
Michael was not the only child Isabella hid from the syndicate. Ask your mother who is burying your brother in New York.
May you like
Luca’s hand froze an inch above the tape.
The lake wind gusted across the terrace, rustling the silk of my wedding gown, carrying the distant toll of church bells over the water, while between us lay an unopened past that had just shattered the world once more.
