Chapter 5 - The Altar of Retribution
Saturday afternoon, 2:00 PM.
St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue was a monument of soaring gothic stone, stained-glass light, and suffocating tension.
Outside, rain lashed against the massive bronze entrance doors, but inside, six hundred guests sat in silent, magnificent anticipation beneath the vaulted ceiling.
The left side of the cathedral was packed with the elite of the city's underworld—capos from Boston, Philadelphia, and New Jersey wearing dark wool suits, their eyes constantly scanning the balconies. The right side was filled with high-society figures, politicians, federal judges, and city officials who had taken my family's money for three decades.
In the second row on the aisle sat my uncle Dominic, who had flown in secretly from Chicago three hours earlier. He sat impeccably dressed in a tailored navy suit, a silver cane resting between his knees, a smug, subtle smirk playing on his thin lips as he glanced toward the rear doors. He believed that within twenty minutes, federal marshals would storm the altar, arrest me for treason and racketeering, and clear the path for him to assume control of the Vance syndicate.
I stood at the head of the altar, dressed in a black velvet tuxedo, my posture straight, my hands folded calmly in front of me.
Beside me stood Marco, acting as my best man, his hand resting casually inside his jacket pocket over his silenced sidearm.
The massive pipe organ roared to life, filling the vast stone cathedral with the deafening, triumphant opening chords of the bridal march.
The grand rear double doors opened.
Six hundred heads turned in unison.
Vivien Rossi stepped into the cathedral.
She was vision of breathtaking, tragic beauty. Her white lace gown trailed twelve feet behind her across the polished red marble aisle. Her long veil framed a face that was stark white, pristine, and rigid as carved marble. To the guests, she looked like a bride overwhelmed by the solemn gravity of the moment.
Only I could see the subtle, violent tremor in her hands as she clutched her bouquet of white gardenias.
Only I knew that beneath the heavy silk lining of her dress, her ankles bore the fresh red marks of leather restraints, and that two of Marco's armed men were walking four paces behind her disguised as usher escorts, their hands resting on concealed handguns inside their coats.
She glided down the long aisle, step by agonizing step, her eyes fixed on mine with an expression of pure, unadulterated terror.
She reached the altar steps.
I stepped down, took her ice-cold, trembling hand in mine, and led her up to stand before the Cardinal.
The Cardinal raised his hands, his rich, gravelly Latin echoing through the silent cathedral.
"Dearly beloved," the priest began, "we are gathered here today in the sight of God and these witnesses to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony..."
As the sermon continued, I turned my head slightly, my eyes locking onto my uncle Dominic sitting in the second row.
Dominic met my gaze, his smirk widening slightly, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the silver handle of his cane. He subtly adjusted his wrist, checking his watch. 2:15 PM. The exact minute the federal strike team was supposed to breach the cathedral doors.
Five seconds passed.
Ten seconds.
The cathedral doors remained firmly closed.
Dominic's smirk began to flicker. He turned his head slightly, frowning toward the rear entrance.
What Dominic did not know was that forty minutes ago, two dozen federal agents had breached the Moretti family's main warehouse in Queens based on the forged manifests Vivien had photographed. A massive gunfight had broken out on the docks; the Moretti bosses were currently either in handcuffs or dead on the warehouse floor, and Agent Marcus Vance was frantically dealing with a catastrophic jurisdictional nightmare that had derailed his entire operation.
Furthermore, the twelve armed men Dominic had stationed outside the cathedral to execute my lieutenants had been quietly surrounded, disarmed, and secured inside a sealed meatpacking truck in an alley two blocks away by Marco's advance teams.
The Cardinal reached the final vows.
"Julian Vance," the priest declared, looking at me over his golden spectacles. "Do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, until death do you part?"
I looked down at Vivien. A tear slipped from her eye, tracing a wet path through her powder, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps.
"I do," I said clearly, my voice echoing through the massive stone hall.
The Cardinal turned to Vivien. "And do you, Vivien Rossi, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband..."
Vivien choked on a breath. She looked at me, then looked past me toward the side door where two of my men stood silently in the shadows. She knew that if she spoke a single word of truth, if she attempted to blow the whistle now, her life—and the life of her father—was forfeited instantly.
"I... I..." she stammered, her voice barely audible.
"Speak up, my child," the Cardinal said gently.
Vivien closed her eyes, tears spilling freely down her face, her shoulders shaking violently beneath her lace veil.
"I do," she whispered.
"By the power vested in me," the Cardinal announced, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
I stepped forward, lifted her silk veil, and cupped her cold, trembling face in my hands.
I leaned in and pressed my lips against hers—a kiss that was soft, beautiful, and utterly dead.
"Welcome to the family, my love," I whispered against her lips so softly that only she could hear. "Now the real sentence begins."
I turned her around to face the six hundred cheering, applauding guests.
As the congregation stood up to applaud the new couple, I raised my right hand slightly, making a simple, casual gesture toward the second row.
Marco stepped out from the altar steps, walked calmly down the aisle, and stopped directly beside my uncle Dominic.
Dominic looked up, his face turning pale grey as he realized that no federal marshals were coming through those doors.
Marco leaned down, his mouth inches from Dominic's ear.
"The boss says it's time for you to go back to Chicago, Dominic," Marco whispered raspy. "There's a car waiting for you outside. If you ever cross the Indiana state line again, we won't bring a priest next time."
Dominic looked from Marco up to the altar, where I stood holding my weeping bride's hand, looking down at him with dark, victorious, absolute power. Dominic swallowed hard, stood up slowly, clutching his silver cane with shaking fingers, and allowed Marco to escort him out through the side exit into the cold afternoon rain.
I turned to Vivien, tucked her hand securely into the crook of my elbow, and led her down the center aisle of the cathedral through the roaring applause of the underworld.
Three hours later.
The rain had ceased completely, leaving the night air crisp, clear, and cold over Ravenwood Estate.
The wedding reception had been brought to an end early; I had excused my bride due to "sudden exhaustion," sending the six hundred guests home with vintage champagne and silk party favors.
The mansion was quiet once more.
I stood on the wide stone terrace outside my private study, wearing my dark wool trousers and a white dress shirt with the collar unbuttoned. The cold mountain wind rustled the dark trees in the gardens below.
The study door behind me opened softly.
Clara Carter walked out onto the terrace. She was carrying little Emma in her arms, wrapped in a thick, warm fleece blanket.
Emma's eyes were sleepy, her small head resting comfortably against her mother's shoulder, her grey stuffed rabbit dangling from her tiny fingers.
Clara stopped beside me, looking out over the quiet, dark grounds of Ravenwood.
"She was transferred to the estate in upstate New York twenty minutes ago," Clara said quietly, referring to Vivien. "Marco said she will be kept there under full guard. She will have everything she needs, but she will never cross the gates again."
"Good," I said, taking a slow breath of the cold night air. "And Dominic?"
"On a train back to Chicago. He won't be returning."
I turned my head and looked down at three-year-old Emma.
The little girl blinked sleepily through the dark, saw me standing beside her, and pulled her hand out from beneath the blanket. She raised one tiny finger to her lips.
"Shh," she whispered faintly, a sleepy little smile touching her lips.
I couldn't help it. A genuine, warm smile broke across my face—the first real smile I had felt in five days.
I lowered myself onto one knee on the cold stone terrace, reaching out to gently touch the folded ear of her stuffed rabbit.
"No more shushing, Emma," I said softly, looking up into her hazel eyes. "The bad game is over. You and your mother are safe now."
Clara looked down at me, her eyes glistening with quiet, deep gratitude. "Thank you, Julian."
"No, Clara," I said, standing up and placing a hand on her shoulder, looking back toward the dark, grand silhouette of Ravenwood Estate—a fortress that was finally secure, quiet, and truly mine. "Thank you. Both of you."
I watched them walk back inside into the warm, yellow light of the house.
I pulled my silver pocket watch from my vest, clicked it open, and looked at the ticking hands.
May you like
It was eight o'clock on a Saturday night.
The house was silent, the empire was safe, and the monsters had all been laid to rest. I closed the watch with a sharp snap, turned my back on the cold fog, and walked inside, closing the heavy doors firmly against the night.
