Chapter 5 - The Wedding Dress in FlamesThe penthouse suite of the Moretti Tower stood forty stories above the glittering Manhattan skyline, overlooking the East River.
It was a fortress of glass, polished black marble, and minimalist art. But tonight, it looked like a war zone.
The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city, currently being lashed by a torrential downpour. Inside, the suite was dead silent except for the crack of a fireplace and the heavy, measured footsteps of Arthur Bellini pacing across the imported Persian rug.
Arthur was a silver-haired fox of a man in his late sixties, impeccably tailored in an Italian wool suit, his fingers adorned with heavy gold signet rings. Sitting on a velvet chaise lounge nearby was his daughter, Vanessa.
She wore a breathtaking, custom-made Vera Wang wedding gown—white, immaculate, and covered in thousands of hand-sewn pearls. It was the dress she had planned to wear to her wedding to Dominic Moretti next month.
Right now, she was casually sipping a glass of vintage Pinot Noir, watching her father pace.
“You said the hit squad confirmed the hospital ward was cleared,” Vanessa said, her voice dripping with bored irritation. “So why hasn't my phone stopped buzzing with security alerts?”
“Because Moretti is a cockroach, Vanessa,” Arthur muttered, checking his diamond-encrusted Rolex for the fifth time in a minute. “The man has survived three assassination attempts and a federal indictment. But once my men clear out that pediatric wing and eliminate the nurse, the warehouse fire investigation dies with him. And his shipping empire reverts to the board—under our complete control.”
Vanessa smiled, a cold, predatory curve of her lips. She stood up, smoothing the pristine layers of her wedding dress.
“I always hated that nurse anyway,” Vanessa murmured. “Such a common little thing. Wearing cheap shoes and no makeup. Imagining she could look at Dominic the way I do.”
“You shouldn't have humiliated her in front of the guards, sweet-heart,” Arthur chided mildly. “Draws unnecessary attention.”
“Attention from whom? The police? The police work for us, Dad,” Vanessa laughed softly, walking over to the bar to pour another glass of wine.
Suddenly, the private elevator chime at the end of the penthouse foyer let out a loud, cheerful ding.
Arthur froze, his hand dropping to his side where a snub-nosed revolver was tucked into his waistband. Vanessa turned her head sharply toward the elevator doors, her wine glass halting halfway to her lips.
The elevator doors slid open smoothly.
There were no guards standing outside. No frantic henchmen bringing good news.
Instead, stepping out of the elevator was a single man.
His hospital pants were stained with dried blood and his chest was wrapped in thick, blood-soaked bandages. His dark hair was matted with sweat, and his gray eyes burned with a cold, apocalyptic fury that made the temperature in the penthouse drop ten degrees.
Behind him, holding a small boy by the hand, stood Grace Bennett. She wore her pale blue scrubs, looking calm, collected, and entirely out of place in the lap of luxury.
Arthur Bellini’s face went entirely white.
Vanessa dropped her wine glass. The crystal shattered against the black marble floor, sending dark red liquid spreading across the rug like a pool of fresh blood.
“D-Dominic?” Vanessa stammered, taking a panicked step backward her white wedding dress rustling loudly in the sudden silence. “You... you were supposed to be in the ICU... your injuries...”
Dominic Moretti didn't say a word.
He walked slowly out of the elevator, his boots clicking against the marble floor with the deliberate cadence of a slow-motion execution. He didn't look at Vanessa. He didn't look at the priceless artwork or the panoramic view of the city.
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His eyes were locked entirely on Arthur Bellini.
“Hello, Arthur,” Dominic said, his voice a gravelly, terrifying rasp that cut through the silence of the penthouse like a razor. “I hope I’m not interrupting your rehearsal dinner.”
