Chapter 7 - The Blood on the Altar
Saturday arrived under a sky the color of tarnished pewter. St. Patrick’s Cathedral had been closed to the public by order of the Archdiocese—an arrangement that Lorenzo had secured with a seven-figure donation to the cathedral’s restoration fund.
Outside on Fifth Avenue, plainclothes security personnel stood every ten feet, their eyes scanning the tourists and traffic behind black sunglasses. Inside, the vast Gothic cathedral was bathed in the dim, reverent glow of thousands of votive candles, their light flickering against towering marble pillars.
Clara stood in the antechamber, staring at her reflection in a full-length gilded mirror.
The wedding dress was a masterpiece of architectural simplicity. Heavy ivory satin, with long sleeves that tapered to sharp points over her wrists, a high bateau neckline, and a dramatic cathedral train that spread across the flagstones like spilled cream. Her veil was sheer, anchored by an antique diamond tiara that had belonged to Lorenzo’s grandmother.
The door behind her opened. She turned, expecting Dante or a stylist, but her breath caught in her throat.
Maya stood in the doorway, supported by a polished mahogany cane, wearing a soft lavender silk dress. Her cheeks had color for the first time in six months. The gaunt, hollow look around her eyes had begun to recede under the intensive round-the-clock therapy at Mount Sinai.
“Maya!” Clara rushed forward, gathering the heavy satin in her hands, and threw her arms around her sister. “What are you doing here? Dr. Wright said you shouldn't be out of bed for more than twenty minutes!”
“You think I was going to miss my only sister getting married to a billionaire?” Maya laughed, hugging Clara tightly. Her grip was noticeably stronger than it had been three days ago. “Lorenzo sent a private ambulance and two nurses to escort me. Clara... he’s amazing. He came to see me yesterday at the hospital.”
Clara pulled back, her eyes widening. “He came to see you?”
“He brought me a vintage architectural drafting set from the nineteen-twenties,” Maya said, her eyes shining with pure, innocent wonder. “He sat by my bed for an hour, asking me about the bridge designs I was working on before I got sick. He told me that when I graduate, he has three commercial development projects waiting for my input.”
Clara felt a strange, complicated pang in her chest. Lorenzo had gone out of his way to visit Maya. Not because the contract required it—the contract was already signed—but for reasons she couldn't fathom.
“He’s... he’s very generous,” Clara managed to say, her throat tight.
“Are you happy, Clara?” Maya asked, her smile fading slightly into gentle concern. She reached up, adjusting a stray curl near Clara’s veil. “You’ve spent your entire life taking care of me. Sacrificing everything. I just want to know that you’re doing this because you want him, not just because he has money.”
Clara looked into her sister’s trusting, hopeful eyes. The lie tasted like ash on her tongue, but she delivered it with the fierce, unshakeable conviction of a protector.
“I’m happy, Maya,” Clara lied, smiling softly. “He’s different from what people think. He’s... he keeps me safe.”
The grand pipe organ began to thunder through the nave, its bass notes vibrating through the stone floor beneath their feet. The antechamber door swung fully open, revealing Dante standing in a tailored suit, his scarred eyebrow twitching slightly.
“It’s time, Miss Vance,” Dante said quietly.
Clara took a deep breath, adjusted her bouquet of white calla lilies, and walked out into the vast nave of the cathedral.
The pews were filled with over three hundred people—city officials, high-ranking police brass, judges, and dozens of syndicate soldiers and Capos dressed in dark suits. At the altar stood Lorenzo. In his black tailcoat, tall, broad-shouldered, and completely motionless, he looked less like a groom and more like a high priest presiding over an ancient, solemn ritual.
Clara walked down the long red carpet alone. She had refused to be given away by an uncle or a stand-in. She walked with her shoulders back, her eyes fixed entirely on Lorenzo.
When she reached the steps of the altar, Lorenzo descended two paces to meet her. He extended his hand, his fingers closing around hers with that familiar, commanding warmth. He leaned down, his voice barely audible beneath the choir’s chants.
“You look breathtaking,” he whispered.
“Don’t get used to it,” she whispered back, though her cheeks flushed beneath the veil.
The Archbishop began the ceremony in Latin, his voice echoing into the vaulted arches high above. Clara recited her vows in English, her voice steady and clear, ringing out across the congregation of criminals and politicians. Lorenzo spoke his with absolute gravity, his dark eyes never leaving her face.
He slipped a heavy platinum band, encrusted with channel-set diamonds, onto her left ring finger. It felt cool, permanent, and terrifyingly real.
“By the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife,” the Archbishop intoned. “You may kiss the bride.”
Lorenzo stepped forward. With slow, reverent fingers, he lifted the veil from Clara’s face, folding it back over the tiara. For a second, he looked down at her with an intensity that made the cathedral seem to vanish into thin air.
He cupped the side of her neck, his thumb resting gently against the rapid flutter of her pulse.
Then he leaned down and kissed her.
It wasn't the brief, polite peck of a contractual business partner. It was deep, possessive, and electric. His lips were firm, demanding, parting hers with a sudden, intoxicating heat that sent a jolt of fire straight through Clara’s veins. For a terrifying, beautiful moment, Clara forgot the contract, forgot the council, forgot the three hundred armed men watching them. Her hand rose instinctively to rest against his chest, feeling the heavy, wild thudding of his heart beneath the silk vest.
When he finally pulled back, his breathing was slightly uneven, his eyes dilated and dark with an emotion he couldn't completely hide.
Before Clara could catch her breath, a sharp, deafening sound shattered the solemn air of the cathedral.
*Crack!*
May you like
The stained-glass window high above the altar exploded inward in a shower of brilliant, lethal shards of colored glass.
***
