Chapter 8 - The Wedding Trap
The day of the wedding arrived with a thunderstorm brewing on the horizon. Dark clouds gathered over Long Island, matching the mood inside the grand ballroom. Over two hundred guests were seated. The most dangerous men in the country, the heads of the five families, sat in the front rows. Dean Foster stood at the altar, looking incredibly smug in his tuxedo. He was acting as Massimo's best man and proxy for the family. Camille Ashwood stood opposite him, wearing a stunning white gown, her face a mask of fake devotion. The heavy wooden doors opened. A silence fell over the room. Two guards slowly wheeled Massimo Rinaldi down the aisle. He looked terrible. He was slumped in the chair, his head hanging slightly, his eyes half-closed. Whispers broke out among the mafia bosses. "He's done," one whispered to another. "The Rinaldi era is over. Foster is the new king."
They positioned the wheelchair at the altar. The priest began the ceremony, his voice echoing in the large, tense room. Dean stood close to Massimo, leaning down to whisper in his ear. "Don't worry, my friend," Dean sneered quietly. "I'll take good care of your empire. And your wife." Massimo didn't react. He just stared blankly at the floor. As the priest reached the crucial moment, asking if anyone objected to the union, Dean stepped forward. "Before we proceed," Dean announced loudly, his voice echoing through the microphone. "I must share some tragic news with the Commission. Don Massimo's health has deteriorated beyond repair. Dr. Hale has confirmed he has only weeks to live." Gasps filled the room. "Therefore," Dean continued, pulling a document from his jacket. "Massimo has signed this decree, transferring all power, assets, and leadership of the Rinaldi family to me, effective immediately upon his marriage."
Camille smiled triumphantly. Dr. Hale, standing near the front, nodded in solemn agreement. "Is this true, Massimo?" demanded Don Falcone, the oldest boss in the room. Massimo remained slumped in his chair. Dean smirked. "He can barely speak, Don Falcone. But the signature is verified." Dean reached out to pat Massimo's shoulder patronizingly. "Rest now, brother. I have the wheel." Suddenly, a hand shot up and grabbed Dean’s wrist. The grip was like a steel vice. Dean gasped, trying to pull away, but he couldn't move. He looked down, his eyes widening in absolute horror. Massimo Rinaldi slowly lifted his head. His gray eyes were completely clear, burning with a terrifying, predatory light. "I don't remember signing that, Dean," Massimo's voice boomed through the quiet room, cold and lethal.
