Chapter 7 - THE GATHERING AT ST. PATRICK’S
Saturday, 2:00 p.m.
Fifth Avenue was completely blocked off from 50th to 52nd Street by NYPD tactical barricades.
A crowd of two thousand onlookers lined the sidewalks behind black security ropes, their phone cameras flashing continuously as a parade of black limousines, Rolls-Royces, and Bentley sedans pulled up to the soaring marble steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
Inside, the vast nave of the cathedral was breathtaking.
Thousands of white pillar candles flickered in the arched alcoves, their light reflecting off the gilded altar and the dark, polished rosewood pews. Three hundred of the most powerful people in America sat in their assigned seats: United States Senators, Supreme Court justices, foreign ambassadors, wall street titans, and the heads of the Five Families of New York.
At the front left pew sat the Crawford family—Vivian’s father, Senator Arthur Crawford, looking proud and imposing in his dark morning coat, flanked by her socialite mother and three brothers.
At the front right pew sat Damian Moretti, looking pristine in a custom Tom Ford tuxedo, leaning back with his arm resting over the carved wood, offering relaxed nods to the city council members sitting behind him.
The heavy pipe organ began to play—a deep, resonant chord that shook the marble floorboards beneath our feet.
The heavy oak rear doors of the cathedral swung open.
Vivian Crawford stepped onto the white runner carpet lining the center aisle.
She was magnificent. Her Vera Wang gown featured a twelve-foot lace train that flowed behind her like a frothy white cloud. Her face was hidden beneath a delicate tulle veil, and her hands trembled slightly as she clutched a bouquet of white lily-of-the-valley blossoms.
The crowd gasped softly, standing up in unison to admire the bride as she began her slow walk down the aisle on the arm of her father.
I stood at the altar, wearing a black tailcoat, my hands folded calmly before me. Beside me stood Marco, acting as my best man, his dark suit tailored precisely to hide the shoulder holster beneath his arm.
Vivian reached the foot of the altar stairs. Senator Crawford took her hand, placed it gently in mine, gave me a firm, meaningful nod, and took his seat in the front pew.
Vivian looked up through her sheer veil, her blue eyes shining with excitement, triumph, and overwhelming greed.
"You look breathtaking, Massimo," she whispered softly.
"You look like an illusion, Vivian," I replied, my voice steady and clear.
The Archbishop of New York stepped forward, opening his gold-bound prayer book, his deep voice echoing through the massive stone vaults of the cathedral.
"Dearly beloved," the Archbishop began, "we are gathered here today in the sight of God, and in the face of this company, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony..."
The Archbishop spoke for five minutes, delivering the traditional sermon on love, honor, fidelity, and the sacred duties of marriage.
Vivian listened with a serene, perfect smile, her eyes fixed on my face, waiting eagerly for the moment she would place her gold band on my finger and secure her grip on the Moretti fortune forever.
"...If any man can show any just cause," the Archbishop continued, reaching the central solemn warning of the liturgy, "why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace."
The cathedral fell into absolute, heavy silence.
It was a formal rhetorical pause—a traditional moment where the congregation was expected to remain still before the exchange of vows.
May you like
I stepped back from Vivian, letting go of her small, gloved hands.
"Actually, Your Eminence," I said, my voice carrying cleanly through the high stone vaults without the aid of a microphone. "There is a cause."
