Chapter 9 - The Reckoning of Blood
The wedding took place three months later, in the Cathedral of the Holy Name, beneath the soaring Gothic arches that had witnessed a century of Chicago’s triumphs and sins.
The city had never seen such an assembly.
Federal marshals blocked off three square blocks of State Street. Armored black SUVs lined the perimeter, their engines idling in the crisp spring air. Inside, four hundred guests sat in dead silence as the massive organ roared into the opening chords of the bridal march.
Elena walked down the aisle alone.
She had refused an escort. She did not need an uncle or an elder boss to give her away. She walked down the white silk runner carrying a single bouquet of white lilies, her dark hair having grown out just enough to brush the top of her diamond-encrusted veil, its cut still sharp, modern, and fiercely distinct.
Her gown was a masterpiece of ivory lace and silk faille, with a fifteen-foot train that swept the marble floor where fifty years of mafia history lay buried.
At the altar, Damian waited.
He did not look at the congregation. He did not look at the cardinal holding the gilded bible.
He looked only at her.
When Elena reached the base of the altar, Damian stepped down the two marble steps to meet her. He lifted her veil, his hands steady, his gaze drinking her in with an intensity that made the vast cathedral feel small, intimate, and breathless.
"You look like an angel," he whispered.
"I'm no angel, Damian," she murmured back, a faint, wicked smile touching her lips. "I'm a Moretti."
"Not yet," he said. "In five minutes."
The ceremony was swift, solemn, and sealed in blood and Latin.
When the cardinal pronounced them husband and wife, Damian did not wait for the formal dismissal. He pulled Elena into his arms and kissed her before God, the Commission, and four hundred people who knew that Chicago now had two rulers instead of one.
***
The reception at the Lake Forest estate lasted until dawn.
Tables groaned beneath tiers of roasted meats, imported truffles, and thousands of bottles of vintage champagne. In the grand salon where Elena had once knelt beside a spilled wineglass, couples danced across the pristine Carrara marble.
Elena slipped away from the noise near three in the morning, walking out into the conservatory at the back of the house.
The glass palace was warm, smelling of damp earth, blooming jasmine, and night orchids. Moonlight streamed through the high glass panes, casting diamond patterns across the stone pathways.
She stood beside an ancient lemon tree, holding a glass of sparkling water, resting her hand against her silk-draped hip.
A footstep sounded behind her.
Elena didn't turn around. She knew the weight of his stride.
Damian stepped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, resting his chin against her shoulder. His tuxedo jacket was gone, his black silk tie loosened, his breath warm against the curve of her neck.
"Tired?" he asked.
"Never," Elena said, leaning back into his solid warmth. "I was just looking at the garden."
"It's yours. All of it."
"I don't care about the garden, Damian," she said softly, turning in his embrace to face him. She reached up, her fingers threading through his dark hair, pulling him down until their foreheads rested together. "I care about the man who kept a lock of my hair in his pocket when everyone else saw a broken servant."
Damian’s arms tightened around her waist, lifting her slightly until her eyes were level with his.
"I will spend the rest of my life making sure no one ever touches a single strand of your hair again," he swore, his voice fierce and low.
Elena smiled, her fingers trailing down his neck, over the collar of his white shirt.
May you like
"Let them try," she whispered.
***
