Chapter 8 - THE NEW ORDERThree weeks later.
The spring sun was finally breaking through the heavy Chicago clouds, melting the last remnants of snow from the lawns of the Moretti estate.
The grand ballroom of the estate had been completely restored. The shattered glass was replaced, the blood scrubbed from the marble, and in place of the dark, gloomy portraits of past mob bosses hung vibrant, modern oil paintings commissioned from local South Side artists.
Today was not a Commission meeting. It was not a war council.
It was the wedding of Lorenzo Moretti and Lydia Coppola.
Over four hundred guests filled the gilded ballroom. But unlike previous mob gatherings, the front three rows were not occupied by armed capos or shadowy underworld dons.
Sitting in the front row was Lydia’s brother, Marcus—clean-shaven, wearing a sharp navy suit, looking proud and emotional. Beside him sat twenty of Lydia’s neighbors, relatives, and friends from South Chicago, drinking vintage champagne and laughing comfortably with the Moretti security team.
At the end of the aisle stood Lorenzo.
He wore a tailored ivory tuxedo, his dark hair combed back, his hazel eyes glowing with an emotion so deep it made the surrounding guards marvel. For the first time in two years, the 'Iron Don' looked completely at peace.
Beside him, sitting proudly in his customized motorized wheelchair, was Mateo. He was holding the velvet ring box in his lap, his health dramatically improved thanks to new physical therapy treatments funded by Lydia’s foundation.
The heavy oak doors at the back of the ballroom opened.
The room held its breath.
Lydia stepped onto the white silk runner.
She was breathtaking. Her custom-designed off-the-shoulder lace wedding gown hugged every glorious, voluptuous curve of her body, cascading into a ten-foot train of delicate Italian embroidery. Her dark hair fell in soft, voluminous waves around her shoulders, and around her neck sat a simple, elegant platinum chain with a small silver lock—matching the key Lorenzo wore around his neck.
She didn't walk like a girl who felt out of place. She walked like an undisputed queen claiming her throne.
As her brother Marcus walked her down the aisle, Lorenzo took three steps forward, breaking wedding protocol, unable to wait another second to touch her.
He took her hand, pulling her onto the alter platform, his eyes drinking in every inch of her stunning face.
"You are going to give me a heart attack, Mrs. Moretti," Lorenzo whispered, his voice raspy with emotion.
Lydia smiled—a brilliant, warm, wicked smile that lit up the entire room. "You survived a military siege, Lorenzo. You can handle a pretty bride."
The priest began the ceremony, but no one was listening to the Latin verses. Everyone in the room was watching the way Lorenzo’s large, scarred hand held Lydia’s soft, warm fingers—tight, protective, and completely unyielding.
"Do you, Lorenzo Moretti," the priest asked, "take Lydia Coppola to be your lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, till death do you part?"
Lorenzo looked straight into Lydia’s dark eyes.
"I take her," Lorenzo declared, his voice echoing loudly through the hall, "as my wife, my shield, my equal, and my ruler. My life is hers, my empire is hers, and my soul belongs to her until the sun burns out."
Tears trickled down Lydia’s cheeks—tears of absolute, unadulterated joy.
"And do you, Lydia Coppola," the priest continued, "take Lorenzo Moretti—"
"I do," Lydia interrupted, laughing through her tears as she stepped into his space. "I do, I do, I do."
"By the authority vested in me," the priest smiled, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
Lorenzo didn't wait. He swept his arm around her plush waist, pulling her flush against his chest, dipping her back gracefully as he brought his lips down onto hers in a deep, passionate, eternal kiss that set off a deafening roar of applause throughout the ballroom.
Mateo cheered loudly, pressing the automated button on his chair to shoot a burst of confetti into the air. Marcus wiped a tear from his eye, raising a glass to his sister, while Marco and the security detail clapped so hard the windows vibrated.
When Lorenzo pulled Lydia back up, she leaned against his chest, breathless, her cheeks glowing pink.
"So," Lydia whispered, her fingers resting against his lapel. "What does the Capo of Chicago do now that he's officially off the market?"
May you like
Lorenzo smiled dark and tenderly, bowing his head to kiss her forehead.
"Now, my queen..." Lorenzo whispered into her ear, "...we go on our honeymoon. And I spend the next fifty years showing you just how much I love every single inch of you."
