Chapter 8 - THE CINEMA OF TRUTH
Vivian’s smile froze.
A quiet, confused murmur rippled through the three hundred guests sitting in the pews. Senator Crawford frowned, leaning forward in his seat. Damian stood up slightly from his pew, his brows furrowed in sudden annoyance.
"Massimo?" Vivian whispered, taking a small step toward me, her voice trembling slightly. "What are you doing? Is this a joke?"
"I don't make jokes about family, Vivian," I said calmly.
I reached into my inner coat pocket, pulled out a small black remote control, and pressed the central red button.
Above the main altar, high beneath the towering stained-glass rose window, a thirty-foot motorized projection screen—installed late the previous night by my private AV team under the guise of an orchestral amplification system—began to unroll with a soft, mechanical hiss.
The cathedral’s massive chandelier lights dimmed simultaneously, plunging the sanctuary into a moody, theatrical twilight.
"Massimo!" Senator Crawford boomed, standing up from the front row, his face red with sudden fury. "What is the meaning of this outrage? This is a holy sanctuary!"
"Sit down, Senator," Marco grunted, stepping forward and placing a heavy hand on the politician’s shoulder, forcing him back into his seat with effortless strength.
The projector flared to life, casting a bright, thirty-foot beam of high-definition light across the white screen behind the altar.
The audio system of the cathedral erupted with the loud, crystalline sound of breaking china.
CRASH.
The screen filled with the crystal-clear 4K video feed from Camera 4, dated Tuesday afternoon at 2:14 p.m.
There was Vivian Crawford, wearing her ivory sweater, looming over my mother’s wheelchair.
The three hundred elite guests in the cathedral gasped in collective, horrified shock.
"You miserable old woman," Vivian’s voice boomed through the sanctuary speakers, eighty decibels loud, echoing off the stone walls. "I spent three years pretending to adore you! In four days I’ll be Mrs. Moretti! This house, the trust, the accounts—all of it becomes mine!"
On the screen, Vivian reached out, grabbed my mother’s silver hair, pulled her back, and slammed her open hand across Lucia’s face.
SLAP.
The sound echoed through St. Patrick’s Cathedral like a cannon shot.
Women in the pews shrieked, covering their mouths. Several elderly executives stood up in disgust. Vivian’s mother let out a strangled sob, burying her face in her hands.
Vivian stood at the altar, her face completely drained of all color, her lips quivering as she stared up at the massive image of her own cruelty displayed before the most powerful people in the state.
"Turn it off!" Vivian screamed, dropping her bouquet of white lilies, her hands flying to her head. "Massimo, please! Turn it off! That’s a fake! That’s an AI generation! That isn't real!"
I did not answer. I pressed the remote again.
The video shifted instantly.
Now the screen showed the parking garage in Midtown Manhattan from eleven months ago.
There was Damian Moretti, pulling Vivian against his body, kissing her passionately on the lips. There was Vivian handing him the thick envelope stuffed with cash.
The cathedral erupted into total, unmanageable chaos.
"You whore!" Senator Crawford yelled, turning on his own daughter, his political reputation disintegrating before his eyes.
Damian Moretti bolted from his pew, sprinting down the side aisle toward the grand rear exit doors of the cathedral.
"Damian!" I called out, my voice booming through the sound system. "Don't run, cousin! Your friends are waiting for you outside!"
The massive iron doors at the back of St. Patrick’s Cathedral burst open.
Eight armed federal agents in windbreakers swept into the nave, their sidearms drawn, blocking Damian’s path.
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"Damian Moretti!" the lead agent shouted. "You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, wire fraud, securities manipulation, and grand larceny! Drop to your knees!"
Damian stopped dead in his tracks, his hands rising slowly into the air, his eyes wild with pure, pathetic terror as two federal agents slammed him against the marble holy water font, snapping heavy steel cuffs over his wrists.
