Chapter 2 - THE BLOOD-STAINED BAND
The silence in the courtyard was deafening. Three hundred of New York’s most dangerous and influential people held their breath, waiting for my next command. The soft rustle of the wind through the white roses sounded like a funeral whisper.
I handed the tablet back to Marco. My eyes remained locked on the altar.
Standing there, perfectly groomed in a custom black tuxedo identical to mine, was my younger brother, Lorenzo.
Lorenzo. The boy I had protected from our father’s wrath. The man I had elevated to be my second-in-command. He had poured the whiskey in my study just an hour ago, clapping me on the shoulder, telling me how proud our late father would be.
Now, his dark eyes met mine across the sea of bewildered guests, and the mask of the supportive brother melted away. A cold, arrogant smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He knew Marco had found the footage. He knew the wedding was over.
But he didn’t look afraid. He looked ready.
“Alessandro?” Isabella’s voice trembled, breaking the heavy silence. She took a step toward me, the heavy silk of her designer gown dragging across the stone path. Her beautiful face was twisted into a mask of perfect, innocent confusion. “Darling, what is it? Why did Marco stop the music?”
She reached out to touch my arm.
I didn’t shout. In my world, a raised voice meant you had lost control. Instead, I stepped back, letting her hand drop into empty air.
“Don’t touch me,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried across the front rows.
Isabella recoiled, her eyes darting toward the Romano family seated on the bride’s side. Her father, Don Carmine Romano, half-rose from his chair, his thick hands gripping a gold-headed cane.
“Alessandro,” Carmine growled, his thick Brooklyn accent cutting through the tension. “You disrespect my daughter on her wedding day? You better have a damn good reason, boy.”
“I have a screen full of them, Carmine,” I replied, not breaking eye contact with Isabella. “Ask your daughter about the transfer documents. Ask her about the empire she was planning to steal with my own blood.”
Isabella’s face drained of color. The perfect, rosy blush of a blushing bride turned into chalky terror. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she stammered, tears springing to her eyes. She was a brilliant actress, but I had seen the footage. I had heard the venom in her voice when she threatened a helpless mother.
I turned my attention away from her lies and looked toward the back of the courtyard. Sophia was frantically trying to untie her pristine white apron. Her hands were shaking violently. Little Emma was clinging to her mother’s leg, her big brown eyes wide with fear as the adults around her began to murmur and stand.
Sophia was trying to run. She knew what happened to people who exposed the secrets of the Moretti family.
“Marco,” I commanded, pointing toward the service entrance. “Secure the gates. No one leaves. Especially not Sophia and the child.”
Sophia froze, a choked sob escaping her throat as two of my suited men stepped in front of the iron gates, blocking her escape. She pulled Emma up into her arms, burying the little girl’s face in her neck. She looked at me with absolute terror, believing I was about to punish her for ruining my wedding.
She didn't realize I was locking the gates to protect her.
“This is insanity!” Lorenzo suddenly shouted from the altar. He stepped down, raising his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Brother, whatever Marco showed you, it’s a fake. It’s the Romanos! They’ve doctored the footage to frame me! They want to divide us!”
Isabella whipped her head toward Lorenzo, her eyes wide with betrayal. “You lying coward!” she shrieked, dropping the sweet-bride act instantly. “You came to me! You brought the documents!”
The courtyard erupted. Chairs scraped against the stone. Romano soldiers reached inside their jackets. My own men instantly mirrored the movement. Three hundred guests were suddenly one word away from a bloodbath among the white roses.
“Stand down!” I roared, my voice finally breaking its quiet restraint. The sheer force of it froze the courtyard. I looked at Lorenzo. “You think I don't know my own seal? You think I don't recognize your shadow on that camera, little brother?”
My mother, who had been standing by her seat clutching her chest, finally pushed past the guests. She walked directly up to Lorenzo, her heels clicking sharply against the stone.
“I knew,” my mother whispered, her voice shaking with grief. “I found the offshore accounts yesterday, Lorenzo. I tried to tell him. I tried.”
Lorenzo looked down at the woman who had raised us. For a second, I thought I saw guilt. But it was quickly replaced by a sneer.
“You always loved him more,” Lorenzo spat.
Before anyone could react, Lorenzo reached into his tuxedo jacket.
Guns were drawn instantly, twenty laser sights painting my brother’s chest. But Lorenzo didn’t pull out a weapon.
He pulled out a small, tarnished silver object and threw it hard onto the stone floor. It bounced and rolled, stopping right at the tip of Isabella’s silk shoes.
It was a heavy, silver man’s wedding band. The metal was deeply scratched, and the inside rim was caked in dried, dark blood.
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Sophia, standing twenty feet away, let out a scream that shattered my heart. It was a sound of pure, primal agony.
“Did you really think her husband died in a car crash, Alessandro?” Lorenzo laughed, stepping backward toward the side door of the chapel. “Ask Isabella who really ordered the hit. Ask your beautiful bride why she kept a trophy.”
