Chapter 3 - THE CHURCH OF BEASTS
Hook: The ultimate betrayal walks down the aisle.Three days later. St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Manhattan.
The sky outside was overcast, a bleak, gray ceiling hanging low over the city. Inside, the church was a masterpiece of gothic opulence, filled to maximum capacity with the most dangerous individuals in the tri-state area. Men in ten-thousand-dollar suits with concealed carry holsters sat alongside glamorous women draped in diamonds and furs.
The Esposito family occupied the right side of the aisle; the Maro family occupied the left. The air was thick with tension, less like a wedding and more like a temporary ceasefire on a bloody battlefield.
Up at the altar, Dorian Esposito stood tall, looking impeccably handsome in a tailored black tuxedo. But his face was a mask of stone. His eyes were dead, staring straight ahead at the massive crucifix, completely detached from reality. He had accepted his fate. He was sacrificing his happiness for the survival of his empire.
The pipe organ began to blare the wedding march, its heavy notes echoing off the high stone arches.
The heavy wooden doors at the back of the cathedral swung open. Greta Maro stepped into the light, looking radiant but terrifying in a dramatic lace gown with a twenty-foot train. Her father, Silvio Maro, a ruthless old man with silver hair and a cane, walked her down the aisle with a triumphant smirk on his face.
Dorian watched her approach, feeling the invisible noose tightening around his neck.
Greta reached the altar. She smiled at Dorian, a look of pure victory. She whispered under her breath, “You’re mine now, Esposito. The city belongs to us.”
Dorian didn't reply. He simply turned to face the priest.
The ceremony commenced. The priest spoke of holy matrimony, of alliances, and of love—words that felt like mockery in a room full of murderers. Dorian went through the motions, his voice empty as he recited his vows.
Finally, the priest turned to the congregation. “If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”
A heavy, traditional silence filled the cathedral. It was a formality. No one objected to a mafia wedding unless they wanted a bullet through their skull.
Then, the massive wooden doors at the very back of the church slammed shut with a deafening BOOM.
Every head in the congregation turned.
Standing in the center aisle, silhouetted against the dim light of the entrance, was a single woman.
She wasn't wearing white. She wasn't wearing a bridesmaid's gown.
Angel Charman stood tall, her honey-brown hair flowing in elegant waves over her shoulders, wearing the smooth, shimmering emerald green satin dress. It caught the flickering light of a hundred altar candles, glowing like a beacon of absolute defiance in the middle of the dark church.
The entire cathedral gasped.
Silvio Maro stood up, his hand instantly reaching inside his coat for his weapon. Marco Bell, Dorian's underboss, stepped forward in shock.
Angel didn't look at the guards. She didn't look at the angry mob of mafiosi. Her eyes locked directly onto Dorian’s.
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In a voice that was clear, steady, and loud enough to echo off the stained-glass windows, she spoke two words that stopped the entire New York underworld from breathing:
“I do.”
