Chapter 8 - THE QUEEN’S VOW
Six months later.
The private gardens of the Rossi estate were transformed into a sea of white roses, crystal chandeliers hanging from wooden pergolas, and soft string music echoing through the warm summer air.
Over three hundred guests sat in the white gilded chairs—not just syndicate leaders, but legitimate businessmen, city officials, and even a few of my old friends from the diner whom I had flown in personally.
At the front of the altar, standing under a canopy of white orchids, stood Vincent.
He wore a pristine white tuxedo, his dark hair neatly styled, looking like a king waiting for his queen. His gray eyes were locked onto the back of the garden aisle, completely oblivious to the hundreds of people around him.
The music shifted into a majestic, sweeping melody.
The crowd stood up in unison.
I stepped out onto the white carpet, holding a bouquet of fresh white lilies.
I wore a custom ballgown of ivory silk, embroidered with thousands of tiny pearls that caught the afternoon sunlight like fallen stars. The long lace train trailed behind me, but through the sheer veil, my eyes were fixed entirely on the man waiting for me at the end of the path.
Beside the altar, Nonna Maria sat in the front row, wearing a brilliant gold dress, wiping tears of happiness from her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Beside her stood Marcus, fully recovered, wearing a proud smile.
As I reached the altar, Vincent stepped down to take my hand. His fingers were warm, steady, and trembled slightly as he lifted my veil.
"You are a vision, my love," he whispered, his eyes shining with uncharacteristic emotion.
"You don't look too bad yourself, Don Rossi," I whispered back, teasing him with a soft smile.
The priest began the ancient vows of marriage, his voice ringing out clearly over the quiet gardens.
"Do you, Vincent Rossi, take Clara to be your lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, in war and in peace, for richer or for poorer, until death do you part?"
Vincent looked straight into my eyes, his hand tightening around mine.
"I do," Vincent said, his voice echoing across the estate with an absolute, unshakeable authority. "I give her my name, my empire, my life, and my protection, until my very last breath."
The priest turned to me. "And do you, Clara, take Vincent to be your lawful wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, in war and in peace, for richer or for poorer, until death do you part?"
I looked into the eyes of the man who had dragged me out of the dark, who had bled for me, who had cherished me as his equal.
"I do," I answered clearly, my voice full of strength and love. "I give him my heart, my loyalty, and my life, forever."
"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife," the priest declared with a warm smile. "You may kiss your bride."
Vincent didn't wait another second.
He stepped forward, pulled me into his arms, and dipped me back slightly as he kissed me deeply, passionately, in front of our entire world.
The crowd erupted into thunderous, standing applause. Cheers and laughter filled the sunny skies of Chicago.
Vincent lifted me back up, wrapping his arm around my waist as we turned to face our guests—hand in hand, united, unbreakable.
Four bullets had taken away my simple old life as a waitress.
But they had given me something far greater.
They had given me a king who worshipped the ground I walked on. They had given me a mother who cherished me as her own. And they had given me an empire where I was no longer a victim hiding in the dark...
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I was Clara Rossi.
The undisputed Queen of Chicago.
