Chapter 3 - The Altar in the Stone Chapel
The private family chapel of the Moretti estate was carved out of ancient lakeside granite, illuminated by hundreds of flickering beeswax tapers.
The air was thick with the scent of burning frankincense and cold mountain stone.
Sitting in the carved oak pews were thirty senior capos, regional council elders, and family relatives.
At the front right sat Beatrice Moretti—draped in pearls and an ivory fur wrap, her lips curved into a smug, anticipatory sneer—and beside her sat Julian Vance, checking his platinum gold watch every thirty seconds.
Luca stood before the altar.
He wore a tailored black three-piece tuxedo that broad-framed his massive shoulders, standing like an immovable monolith before the elderly Sicilian priest. His hands were clasped in front of him, his head held high, though his knuckles were white with tension. He had stood before firing squads and rival cartels without flinching, but standing before an empty chapel aisle, waiting for a bride who had every reason to abandon him, his jaw was clamped in agonizing stillness.
CREEEAK.
The heavy double oak doors at the back of the chapel swung open.
The murmured whispers among the council elders died instantly.
Julian Vance leaned forward in his pew, his smirk ready to bloom into triumphant laughter.
I stepped onto the marble aisle.
I wasn't wearing a designer gown from Milan. I wore a simple, elegant ivory silk slip dress that Elena had tailored for me in twenty minutes, with a wreath of fresh white jasmine woven into my dark curls.
My left shoe caught the edge of the ceremonial runner on my very third step.
Thump.
A gasp rippled through the pews as I stumbled forward, my veil tilting precariously over my forehead.
Beatrice chuckled softly under her breath: "A clumsy peasant girl. Perfect."
I didn't panic. I caught my balance, kicked off the uncomfortable three-inch heels with my toes, leaving them right on the runner, and walked down the rest of the cold stone aisle completely barefoot.
Luca’s breath hitched in his throat.
As I reached the altar steps, his slate-gray eyes searched mine—waiting for the revulsion, waiting for the flinch, waiting for the hesitation.
I walked straight up to him. I was tiny beside him; the top of my head barely reached the middle of his broad chest.
I didn't wait for the priest to tell us to join hands.
I reached out with both of my hands and took his massive, scar-laced right hand into mine. His fingers were twice the size of mine, calloused from weapons and labor, trembling with an almost imperceptible tremor.
I laced my fingers through his, looking straight up into his stormy eyes with an open, radiant smile.
"Hi," I whispered softly.
Luca stared at me, his chest heaving with a deep, shuddering breath. "Sophia... you don't have to do this. If you want to walk away, I will give you a car and secure your father's shop forever."
"I like the shop, Luca," I replied, my voice carrying clearly through the silent chapel, ringing off the granite walls like silver bells. "But I like the man holding my hand much more."
Julian Vance’s jaw slacked open. Beatrice dropped her lace fan onto the flagstones.
The elderly priest cleared his throat, smiling warmly from behind his spectacles.
"Do you, Luca Moretti, take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?"
Luca never looked away from my eyes. The stone around his heart cracked open, revealing an ocean of fierce, reverent light.
"With my blood, my soul, and my life," Luca spoke, his thunderous baritone shaking the chapel rafters.
"And do you, Sophia Bennett, take this man?"
"I do," I beamed, standing on my tiptoes.
When Luca bent down to kiss me, his massive arms wrapped around my waist with the gentlest, most terrifying care—as though I were made of spun sugar that might dissolve if he breathed too hard.
May you like
His lips met mine in a tender, breathless promise beneath the holy candlelight.
Across the chapel, the elders slowly rose to their feet in an unexpected, thunderous roar of applause, while Julian Vance sat frozen in his seat, his face turning the color of rotting ash.
