Chapter 8 - The Queen's Vow
Three days later. The Grand Cathedral of Saint John in downtown Chicago.
The street outside was lined with over fifty black luxury sedans, protected by a perimeter of two hundred tactical guards holding heavy security lines against a crowd of news reporters and curious onlookers.
Inside, the cathedral was filled with two hundred of the most powerful people in the midwestern underworld. Capos, union leaders, politicians, and syndicate bosses sat along the dark mahogany pews, lit by the glowing light of three thousand beeswax candles that filled the high stone archways with a warm, golden haze.
Organ music swelled through the massive hall, deep and majestic.
At the head of the altar stood Dante Moretti.
He wore a tailored black tuxedo with a crisp white shirt, his broad shoulders squared, his hair neatly styled. Beside him stood Marco as his best man, holding two platinum wedding bands.
The heavy oak doors at the back of the cathedral swung wide open.
A collective gasp echoed through the two hundred seated guests.
Clara Vance walked down the long, red-carpeted aisle.
She was radiant beyond words. Her ivory silk gown trailed six feet behind her across the stone floor, her golden hair swept up in a tiara of small blue diamonds—the Moretti Heirloom. In her hand, she carried a bouquet of white winter roses.
Walking proudly beside her, holding her left hand, was eight-year-old Lily. Lily wore a beautiful pale yellow velvet dress, her hair styled in soft curls, holding a tiny basket of rose petals, her small face glowing with pure, unadulterated pride.
In the front pew, two private nurses sat holding Leo and Toby, both infants dressed in tiny white silk christening suits, resting peacefully under the warm light of the altar.
As Clara reached the foot of the altar steps, Dante stepped down to meet her.
He took her hand into his large, warm palm. Up close, Clara saw that his obsidian eyes were soft, filled with a deep, fierce reverence that no person in Chicago had ever seen before.
"You look breathtaking, my Queen," Dante whispered softly so only she could hear.
"And you look like a King who just won a war," Clara replied with a soft, beautiful smile.
The Cardinal stepped forward, opening his leather book of vows.
"Do you, Dante Moretti, take Clara Vance to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, in victory and in trial, until death do you part?"
Dante looked directly into Clara’s dark blue eyes, his voice deep, firm, and absolute as it echoed off the cathedral walls: "I do."
"And do you, Clara Vance, take Dante Moretti to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Clara felt a wave of profound, absolute clarity wash over her heart. She thought of the cold alleyway, the warm mansion, the safety of her brothers, and the terrifying, magnificent man who had stood between her family and the dark.
"I do," Clara said, her voice clear and strong.
"By the authority vested in me," the Cardinal announced, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
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Dante stepped closer, wrapping his broad arm gently around Clara’s waist, pulling her flush against his chest. He leaned down, his lips closing over hers in a slow, deep, possessive kiss that sealed their lives together forever.
The entire cathedral erupted into thunderous, standing-room applause. Two hundred syndicate leaders stood to their feet, bowing their heads to the new Mistress of the Moretti Empire.
