Chapter 5 - The Gathering of the Wolves
The Cathedral of St. Ignatius on Fifth Avenue was a soaring masterpiece of Gothic revival architecture.
Two-hundred-foot vaulted ceilings of ribbed gray granite rose above five hundred mahogany pews, illuminated by thousands of white beeswax candles and the warm, multi-colored light streaming through towering stained-glass windows.
The air was thick with the scent of white Casablanca lilies, frankincense, and the suffocating perfume of New York’s absolute elite.
Sitting in the front three pews on the bride’s side was the Moretti dynasty.
Victor Moretti, the patriarch, sat with his chest puffed out beneath a bespoke morning suit, his white mustache trimmed to razor sharpness, chatting animatedly with two state senators and the chairman of the Federal Maritime Commission.
Beside him sat his son, Lorenzo Moretti, twenty-eight years old, wearing an arrogant, lopsided grin, checking his encrypted smartphone beneath his hymnal every three minutes.
“The wire confirmations are lining up, Dad,” Lorenzo whispered, leaning toward his father’s ear. “The second Alessandro signs the legal marriage registry in the vestry, the joint power-of-attorney clause activates. The bank in Zurich will release the forty-million-dollar liquidity bridge to our transit accounts by four o'clock.”
Victor patted his son’s knee with a heavy, diamond-ringed hand. “I told you, Lorenzo. Alessandro is a sentimental fool. He spent three years mourning that dead wife of his, living like a monk with that little brat. All it took was Bianca batting her eyelashes and pretending to love children, and he handed us the keys to the kingdom.”
“And the kid?” Lorenzo asked with a low, cruel chuckle. “Bianca said she was acting up this morning.”
“The kid will be in a private sanitarium in Zurich by the end of the month,” Victor dismissed him with a flick of his wrist. “Once the merger closes, Bianca will have full custodial authority. Alessandro will be too busy fighting off our hostile board takeover to notice his daughter is living on pure sedatives.”
A sudden hush fell over the vaulted cathedral.
The massive brass doors at the back of the nave swung open.
The grand pipe organ exploded into the resonant, thunderous chords of the bridal processional.
Every guest in the five hundred pews stood up, turning toward the center aisle.
Walking down the crimson carpet, flanked by her father, was Bianca Moretti.
She looked magnificent. Her cathedral-length veil of antique Brussels lace billowed behind her, trailing thirty feet across the stone floor. Her gown hugged her figure in shimmering silk, but it was the Moretti Star around her throat—the sixty-four blazing green emeralds—that drew audible gasps of envy and admiration from the socialite crowd.
Bianca smiled beneath her sheer veil, her eyes locked onto the altar.
Standing beneath the high marble cross was Alessandro Rizzano.
He stood alone. No best man. No groomsmen flanking his side. Just a solitary, commanding silhouette carved from black wool and white linen, watching her approach with the stillness of an executioner waiting for the blade to drop.
Bianca reached the foot of the altar steps.
Victor Moretti took his daughter’s gloved hand, placing it into Alessandro’s palm with an expression of profound, theatrical pride.
“Take care of her, Alessandro,” Victor said loudly enough for the front three rows to hear. “She is the brightest light of the Moretti bloodline.”
Alessandro took Bianca’s hand.
His grip was not the gentle touch of an eager bridegroom. It was an iron clamp, cold and crushing, holding her fingers with such immense, unyielding pressure that Bianca let out a tiny, stifled gasp of pain behind her lace veil.
“Alessandro...” she whispered, trying to pull back. “You’re hurting my hand.”
Alessandro didn't release her. He led her up the three marble steps, turning to face the elderly Archbishop who stood before the altar with an open leather missal.
The organ music faded, echoing into the cavernous ceiling before dying into an expectant, reverent silence.
The Archbishop smiled warmly at the couple, adjusting his golden vestments.
“Dearly beloved,” the Archbishop began, his voice carrying cleanly through the acoustic grandeur of the hall. “We are gathered here today before God and this congregation to unite this man and this woman in the holy bond of matrimony. If any person here knows of any lawful impediment why these two should not be joined in holy union, let them speak now, or forever hold their peace.”
The silence that followed was customary—a brief, five-second liturgical pause before the vows began.
The Archbishop inhaled to speak the next verse.
“Stop,” Alessandro said.
The word was not shouted. It was spoken with the quiet, chilling clarity of a pistol shot in an empty room.
The Archbishop froze, his mouth half-open.
The five hundred guests in the pews leaned forward in unison, a confused, rustling murmur rippling through the cathedral like wind through dry leaves.
Bianca’s heart leaped into her throat. She tried to laugh, turning toward the congregation with an embarrassed, apologetic shake of her head. “Alessandro, darling... stop playing jokes. The Archbishop is waiting.”
Alessandro released her hand.
He didn't look at the Archbishop. He reached inside his tuxedo jacket, pulled out a small, sleek wireless microphone, and clicked the power toggle.
May you like
The sound of his voice boomed through the cathedral’s state-of-the-art acoustic sound system, vibrating the stone columns.
“There is an impediment,” Alessandro announced to the room. “An insurmountable one.”
