Chapter 10 - The War for New York
The cathedral erupted into pure, unfiltered chaos.
Judges and city councilmen scrambled out of their pews toward the side exits, desperate to put as much distance between themselves and the unfolding federal takedown as possible. Photographers tripped over their own tripod stands, frantically flashing their lenses toward the altar while security guards shouted orders over the roar of the panicked crowd.
Salvatore Marino lunged forward with a primal roar of pure rage, drawing a snub-nosed revolver from his jacket holster.
"I'll kill you right here, you arrogant little bastard!" Salvatore screamed, leveling the barrel straight at my chest.
Before his finger could even tighten on the trigger, Grant’s Sig Sauer barked once.
The gunshot cracked through the sacred nave like thunder, shattering a stained-glass window high above. Salvatore dropped his weapon with a sharp clatter as a bullet grazed his shoulder, sending him spinning backward into the wooden pews.
"Federal agents! Stay down!" Grant roared, stepping in front of me with his weapon raised as local transit police and federal marshals swarmed through the side transepts, sealing off the exits.
Within seconds, Salvatore was face-down on the marble floor, plastic zip-ties biting brutally into his wrists as two federal marshals dragged him toward the exit.
Vanessa stood frozen near the altar, her breathtaking lace gown trailing across the blood-spotted floor. She looked at her father being hauled away like a common criminal, then turned her cold, terrifying gaze back toward me.
"You ruined everything," she whispered, her voice devoid of tears, filled only with a deep, bottomless poison. "My family will hunt you down until the day you die, Vincent. You think you won? You just started a war that will burn this entire city to the ash."
"Let them try," I said, my voice completely level.
She turned on her heel, lifting the heavy silk of her dress, and stormed down the aisle past the fleeing guests, refusing assistance from anyone.
The cathedral emptied rapidly, leaving behind only the echoing silence of the vaulted ceilings, the smell of cordite, and the scattered white petals of a ruined wedding.
I stood alone at the front of the altar, looking down at the discarded wedding ring resting in the velvet box.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
I pulled it out. It was a secure satellite message from the private jet currently cruising over the Atlantic.
Secure. We're airborne. Chloe is resting.
I let out a long, slow breath, closing my eyes for a single second as the crushing weight of the last twenty-four hours finally shifted off my shoulders.
Then my phone buzzed again.
An incoming local call from an unrecognized New York number.
I swiped and pressed it to my ear.
"Vincent?"
It was Mara’s voice—shaking, exhausted, but alive.
"I heard what happened," she whispered softly through the static of the satellite relay. "Grant told me you stopped the wedding. You... you gave up everything for us."
"I gave up a prison cell disguised as a marriage," I said, looking out toward the massive oak doors where the city stretched out under a cold November rain. "Where are you landing?"
May you like
"London," she answered after a long pause. "Then... somewhere else. Somewhere far away from New York."
"Pack light," I said, my grip tightening around the phone. "I'll be on the next flight out."
