Chapter 8 - Fire and Shattered Glass
The cathedral descended into instantaneous chaos.
A high-caliber bullet ripped through the mahogany pulpit where the Archbishop had been standing seconds before, splintering the wood into jagged spears. The choir’s voices cut off into synchronized screams of terror as three hundred wedding guests ducked for cover beneath the heavy wooden pews.
Lorenzo didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second.
With the speed of a striking cobra, he wrapped his arm around Clara’s waist and tackled her to the stone floor behind the solid marble altar, shielding her entirely with his own body just as a second bullet struck the stone where her head had been, sending a spray of white dust into the air.
“Maya!” Clara screamed, her voice tearing from her throat as she tried to scramble out from beneath him. “Where is Maya?!”
“Dante has her!” Lorenzo roared over the deafening cacophony of gunfire. His hand clamped down on her shoulder, pinning her securely behind the marble barrier. “Stay down, Clara! If you lift your head, you’re dead!”
From his shoulder holster beneath his tailcoat, Lorenzo drew a custom black semi-automatic pistol. His face was entirely transformed. The aristocratic composure had vanished, replaced by a terrifying, lethal mask of pure rage.
From the rear of the cathedral, Dante’s voice boomed above the screaming crowd: “South transept is secure! Maya is in the vault! Lorenzo, we have shooters in the organ loft!”
Moretti soldiers throughout the cathedral were already drawing weapons from beneath their coats, forming a protective perimeter around the altar, returning fire toward the high choir balcony where muzzle flashes strobed against the shadows.
A bullet ricocheted off the marble angel above Clara’s head, showering them with stone dust.
Lorenzo leaned out, fired three rapid, controlled shots toward the loft, and ducked back. A wet thud echoed from above as a sniper tumbled over the wooden railing, plummeting eighty feet to crash onto the marble floor of the center aisle.
“Falcone,” Clara breathed, her fingers digging into the fabric of Lorenzo’s coat.
“Matteo,” Lorenzo corrected, his teeth bared in a feral snarl as he reloaded his weapon with terrifying muscle memory. “Falcone doesn't have the stomach for a cathedral hit. My uncle Matteo decided to take his shot before the ink on our marriage license dried.”
He looked down at Clara. Her veil was torn, her white dress was smudged with soot and marble dust, and her tiara sat crooked against her hair. But there was no hysterical weeping. Her eyes were wide with terror, but her jaw was locked in that same stubborn, unbreakable line he had seen at the Obsidian Lounge.
“Can you run?” Lorenzo demanded.
“Give me a gun and I won't have to,” she replied instantly.
A dark, savage flash of pride lit up Lorenzo’s eyes. “Not today, wife. Move!”
He grabbed her hand, hauling her to her feet, and led her through the low arched door behind the high altar that led into the cathedral’s subterranean crypts. Two Moretti soldiers flanked them, their weapons raised, checking every blind corner as they moved rapidly through the cold stone tunnels beneath Fifth Avenue.
The crypt smelled of damp earth, ancient stone, and burning gunpowder drifting down from above. Behind them, the sounds of gunfire began to thin as Moretti’s security team overwhelmed the attackers.
They emerged into the private basement garage beneath a commercial building across the street, where three armored SUVs sat with their engines rumbling. Dante was already there, standing beside an open vehicle where Maya sat wrapped in an emergency blanket, trembling but completely unharmed.
“Maya!” Clara broke away from Lorenzo, sprinting across the concrete and throwing herself into the SUV, pulling her sister into a fierce, desperate embrace.
“I’m okay, Clara,” Maya sobbed into her neck. “The silver-haired man... Dante... he pushed me under the pew the second the glass broke. He saved me.”
Clara looked over Maya’s shoulder at Dante. The older man nodded once, his scarred face impassive, before turning back to Lorenzo.
“Two shooters dead in the loft,” Dante reported coldly. “One taken alive. He’s already talking. It was Matteo. He was promised ten million dollars and the Brooklyn piers by Falcone if Lorenzo didn't walk out of that church alive.”
Lorenzo’s voice dropped into a register so cold it seemed to freeze the exhaust fumes rising from the vehicles.
“Bring my uncle to the safehouse in Queens,” Lorenzo said. “Do not kill him yet. I want him to watch what happens to his empire before he dies.”
He turned back toward the SUV where Clara sat with her sister. He stepped up to the open door, his tuxedo covered in dust, his gun back in its holster. He looked at Clara, his expression unreadable.
“You have every right to take your sister and walk away right now,” Lorenzo said, his voice surprisingly quiet against the rumble of the engines. “The contract is signed. The trust fund will be funded regardless. You didn't ask to be shot at on your wedding day.”
Clara looked down at her left hand. The diamond-encrusted platinum band gleamed through the dust and dirt. She looked at Maya, who was breathing steadily, safe in the center of an armored vehicle guarded by an army that would slaughter anyone who came near her.
Then she looked up at Lorenzo. She saw the blood on his cuffs—not his own, but the blood of the men who had tried to execute them both at the altar.
“They tried to kill my sister, Lorenzo,” Clara said, her voice dropping into a low, dangerous tone that made even Dante look at her with newfound respect. “And they tried to kill my husband.”
She stepped out of the vehicle, smoothing down the torn, dust-covered satin of her wedding gown.
May you like
“Take Maya to the fortified medical wing at the estate,” Clara instructed Dante. Then she turned back to Lorenzo, her chin lifted high. “And take me to your uncle. We have business to settle.”
***
