Chapter 8 - The Altar of Glass
The morning sun filtered through the stained-glass windows of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, casting long, bleeding streaks of crimson and gold across the marble flagstones.
Outside, the streets of Fifth Avenue were a gridlock of black luxury sedans, television camera crews, and hundreds of curious onlookers braving the crisp November air to catch a glimpse of the wedding of the decade. Inside, the massive cathedral was packed to capacity. Five hundred of New York’s elite—judges, politicians, shipping magnates, and syndicate leaders—sat in hushed, reverent silence, waiting for the bride.
At the front of the aisle, standing beside the towering marble altar, I adjusted my black silk tie.
My tuxedo fit like a straightjacket. Every second that ticked past on the heavy gold pocket watch in my vest felt like a countdown to execution.
Grant stood three paces behind me in the shadows of a stone pillar, his hand resting casually inside his jacket near his holster.
"Status?" I muttered under my breath, my lips barely moving.
"Recon teams are sweeping the industrial warehouses in Brooklyn and Queens," Grant whispered back, his voice tight with suppressed tension. "Salvatore’s inner circle has gone underground. We haven't found a single trace of Mara or the child."
"We have twenty minutes," I said coldly.
"Boss, if you don't go through with the ceremony—"
"I am going through with the ceremony," I interrupted, my voice devoid of all human warmth. "Every single person in this room thinks they're watching a marriage. What they're actually watching is a hostage exchange."
The heavy oak doors at the back of the cathedral swung open.
The organ swelled into the soaring, triumphant chords of the bridal march. A collective intake of breath rippled through the congregation as heads turned toward the entrance.
Vanessa Marino walked down the aisle.
She looked breathtaking. Her gown was an architectural masterpiece of French lace and hand-sewn pearls, costing more than most families earned in five years. Her face was calm, serene, and utterly composed—the face of a woman who knew she had won a war without firing a single shot.
As she reached the altar, her father—looking remarkably composed despite the bruised ring around his neck from the night before—smiled thinly as he placed her hand in mine.
"A magnificent day for a union, Vincent," Salvatore murmured softly, his eyes glittering with cold triumph.
I didn't answer him. I looked down at Vanessa. Her eyes met mine, and for a fraction of a second, the cold veneer of her patrician upbringing flickered, revealing a hint of unease.
"Vincent," she whispered as the priest began the Latin invocation. "You look pale."
"Just waiting for the vows, Vanessa," I replied quietly.
The priest droned on through the traditional liturgy, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. The congregation stood in rapt attention. Flashbulbs popped silently from the press gallery upstairs, capturing every manufactured smile and hollow gesture.
Then came the moment.
"Do you, Vincent Russo, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?" the priest asked, turning his serene, lined face toward me.
The entire cathedral fell into an absolute, breathless silence. You could hear the rain tapping lightly against the high gothic windows outside.
I looked at the priest. Then I looked at Salvatore, sitting in the front pew with a self-satisfied smirk. Then I looked down at the gold wedding band resting in the velvet box held by the best man.
May you like
I raised my head, my voice carrying clear and steady across the vast, stone-lined nave.
"No."
