Chapter 5 - The War at the Gates
Back in Newport, Narragansett Bay was churning under a slate-gray sky that matched the mood inside the Ferraro estate with terrifying accuracy.
The grand ballroom—decorated with fifty thousand dollars' worth of imported white dahlias, cascading ivy, and crystal candelabras—resembled a high-society war zone.
Teresa Ferraro paced across the parquet floor, her silk heels clicking like machine-gun fire, her silver hair perfectly coiffed despite the fact that she was currently experiencing a full-scale neurological meltdown.
"Find him!" Teresa shrieked, whirling around to face Nora, who was standing near the French doors holding a lukewarm glass of sparkling water like a lifeline. "What do you mean, he's not answering his phone?! Senator Vance is downstairs in the receiving line! The mayor is cutting into the appetizer trays! What am I supposed to tell them?!"
"You can tell them the groom realized he was marrying into a cult instead of a family, Mother," Nora snapped back, her patience finally snapping after four hours of continuous screaming.
Teresa gasped, clutching her pearls as if she had been physically struck. "How dare you! After everything your father and I built—after generations of protecting our standing in this city—your brother throws it all away for an electrician’s daughter who doesn't even know how to use a fish fork!"
"Claire knows how to use a fork, Mother. She just doesn't care about your archaic rules," Nora retorted, walking away from her and heading toward the terrace.
Outside, the rain was coming down in sheets, lashing against the glass panes of the tent where the string quartet sat playing solemn, confused classical pieces to an empty room of bewildered, whispering elites.
Vivienne Russo stood near the bar, sipping a gin and tonic, her emerald dress gleaming under the chandeliers like the skin of a snake. She looked less upset and more vindicated—the triumphant survivor of a temporary aberration.
"It’s tragic, really," Vivienne murmured to a passing uncle. "The boy was clearly under some kind of spell. A middle-class girl from Brooklyn... honestly, Teresa should have seen it coming a mile away."
Before Uncle Silvio could grunt a misogynistic agreement, the heavy oak doors of the grand foyer burst open.
The entire room went dead silent. The string quartet stopped mid-measure.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in a charcoal suit soaked completely through with rainwater stood in the doorway. He wasn't Luca.
It was Marcus Moretti, Luca’s head of security, flanked by two armed men in tactical raincoats. Marcus walked into the center of the ballroom with the unhurried, terrifying stride of a man delivering an eviction notice.
Teresa rushed toward him, her face flushed with fury. "Marcus! Where is my son? What is the meaning of this—"
"Mrs. Ferraro," Marcus interrupted smoothly, his voice flat and loud enough to echo off the vaulted ceiling. "Mr. Ferraro asked me to deliver an official statement to all invited guests and family members."
The room leaned in. One hundred and sixty-three pairs of expensive eyes locked onto the security chief.
"The wedding is officially canceled," Marcus announced, his voice ringing like a bell through the silent hall. "Mr. Ferraro has departed the estate indefinitely. All catering expenses, deposits, and accommodations will be fully refunded by Castalano-Ferraro Holdings by tomorrow morning. You are all asked to vacate the premises immediately."
Chaos erupted.
Uncle Silvio stood up, his face turning purple, roaring curses across the table. Vivienne dropped her gin glass, the crystal shattering against the marble floor. And Teresa Ferraro let out a sound of pure, unadulterated horror—the shriek of a queen whose kingdom had just been set on fire by her own heir.
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"He can't do this!" Teresa screamed, lunging toward Marcus. "I am his mother! Bring my son back here this instant!"
Marcus didn't blink. He simply stepped back, signaling to his men. "Drivers are waiting outside to escort everyone to their vehicles. Good day, Mrs. Ferraro."
