Send the Ugly One, He'll Reject Her! They Laughed — But the Mafia Boss Was Speechless!

One year later.

The Cathedral of the Holy Cross was draped in thousands of white lilies, cascading ivy, and soft candlelight.

Outside, the streets of Boston were lined with hundreds of citizens, reporters, and dockworkers, held back by velvet ropes and polite security. The city had prospered under the new Moretti-Jones leadership; jobs had doubled, corruption had been eradicated from the maritime unions, and Adelaide’s foundation had funded five new children’s hospitals and legal aid clinics across the state.

Inside the cathedral, the organ swelled into a magnificent, triumphant processional.

Mateo Moretti stood at the high altar. He looked magnificent in his bespoke midnight-black tuxedo, his eyes fixed on the double doors at the far end of the long marble nave.

The doors opened.

Adelaide stepped into the light.

She was an absolute vision. Her wedding gown was a custom creation of silk mikado, off-the-shoulder, accentuating her graceful neck and the pale, proud slash of her scar. A veil of delicate Chantilly lace cascaded behind her, ten feet long, dusted with tiny sapphires that caught the candlelight like a field of stars.

She wore no thick glasses today; delicate, custom contacts left her hazel eyes completely open, sparkling with pure confidence and joy.

She walked down the aisle alone—she needed no man to give her away, because she belonged entirely to herself.

When she reached the altar, Mateo stepped down to take her hand. His fingers closed around hers, warm, steady, and reverent.

“You look breathtaking,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

“And you look ready to conquer the world,” she whispered back with a radiant smile.

“Only with you,” he said.

The archbishop spoke the ancient vows, but for Adelaide and Mateo, the words had already been written in blood, ink, and fire months ago. When the gold bands were slipped onto their fingers, Mateo cupped her face in both hands and kissed his wife with an intensity that sent a collective sigh through the crowded cathedral.

The reception at the restored Louisburg Square estate lasted long into the starlit night.

High society toasted Donna Adelaide. The finest families in Boston competed for a moment of her time, eager to secure her favor.

Meanwhile, three miles away at the South Boston Correctional Facility, Rockford Jones sat in an eight-by-ten concrete cell, eating cold stew from a plastic tray while a grainy television in the dayroom broadcast live coverage of the Moretti wedding.

In a dilapidated suburban strip mall in New Hampshire, Evelyn lived on a monthly minimum-wage pension, shunned by every country club she had once reigned over.

And in a crowded department store in downtown Providence, Chloe folded sweaters behind a retail counter, her hands chapped from cleaning solutions, forced to watch society magazines featuring Adelaide’s glowing, regal face on the checkout racks every single day.

None of them existed in Adelaide’s world anymore. They were ghosts, swallowed by the shadow of their own greed.

At midnight, Adelaide walked out onto the second-floor stone balcony of her ancestral home. The autumn air was cool and crisp, carrying the distant, comforting scent of the harbor.

A pair of strong arms slipped around her waist from behind, pulling her back against a broad, solid chest. Mateo rested his chin on her shoulder, his hands gently covering her abdomen, where, just that morning, a doctor had confirmed the beginning of their next chapter—a healthy, growing heartbeat.

“Tired?” Mateo murmured, kissing the side of her neck right beneath her scar.

“Never,” Adelaide said, leaning back into his embrace, her eyes looking out over the glittering skyline of Boston.

The city was theirs. The future was unwritten, safe, and brilliant.