Chapter 7 - The Crimson Chapel
The private chapel on the twenty-second floor of the Sovereign Tower had no stained-glass windows open to the Chicago sky.
Its walls were constructed of soundproofed Indiana limestone, illuminated solely by hundreds of flickering beeswax votives set into wrought-iron alcoves.
The smell of burning frankincense hung thick in the air, masking the scent of gun oil and wet wool that clung to the four heavily armed guards stationed at the heavy oak doors.
I stood before the altar, staring at my reflection in the polished marble floor.
The clothes Marco had provided were immaculate.
An ivory silk tea-length dress with long, tailored sleeves and a high collar that concealed the dark bruises of exhaustion along my collarbone.
My mother’s silver Saint Michael medallion rested against the silk, polished until it gleamed like liquid moonlight.
My hair had been dried and pinned back in an elegant, simple chignon.
I looked like a stranger.
I looked like the woman my mother had spent twenty-five years preventing me from becoming.
Heavy footsteps echoed down the stone aisle.
Dante walked toward the altar, adjusting the cufflinks on a crisp white shirt beneath a midnight-blue tuxedo jacket.
He looked impossibly calm, as if this were merely another board meeting to ratify a zoning permit.
Behind him walked an elderly man with silver hair and a worn black cassock—Father Bernardo.
The priest’s hands shook slightly as he opened his leather-bound liturgy book, his eyes darting once toward the armed men at the door before settling on Dante with deep, anxious deference.
“Dante,” the old man murmured in a voice thin as dry paper. “Are you certain the boy’s bloodline has been verified? If the elders in Sicily dispute this—”
“The blood is pure, Father,” Dante cut in, his voice ringing through the vaulted limestone ceiling. “Perform the sacrament.”
The ceremony took less than seven minutes.
There was no music.
There were no flowers.
There were no tearful relatives sitting in the pews.
Only the rhythmic, murmured Latin of the ancient rite, bouncing off the cold stone walls like an incantation.
When the priest asked for my consent, the words caught in my throat for three agonizing heartbeats.
I looked up at Dante.
His profile was carved from granite—sharp, uncompromising, and terrifyingly steady.
He turned his head to meet my gaze.
There was no pleading in his eyes.
There was only an unspoken promise: Survive.
“I do,” I whispered into the quiet stone room.
Dante reached into his pocket and drew out a platinum ring set with an emerald-cut diamond flanked by two raw baguettes.
It had belonged to his grandmother, the matriarch who had fled Sicily during the early purges.
He took my left hand in his.
His fingers were warm, steady, and calloused from years of handling firearms and heavy steering wheels.
He slid the cold band over my knuckle.
It fit with unnatural, terrifying perfection.
“By the authority vested in me by Holy Mother Church,” Father Bernardo whispered, his voice trembling as he made the sign of the cross, “I pronounce you husband and wife.”
The priest hesitated, glancing nervously at Dante.
“You may seal the covenant.”
Dante stepped closer.
His broad chest filled my entire field of vision.
His right hand rose, his fingers gently cradling the side of my jaw, his thumb resting near the pulse beating wildly at the base of my throat.
He leaned down.
I braced myself for something harsh, something claiming ownership.
Instead, his lips brushed against my cheekbone, just below my eye, lingering for a fraction of a second before descending to the corner of my mouth.
It was not a kiss of passion; it was a brand of protection.
“You are under my seal now,” he murmured against my ear, his breath hot against my cold skin. “No one in this city will touch you without answering to my gun.”
Before I could answer, the heavy double doors of the chapel burst open.
The loud crack echoed like a gunshot through the sacred silence.
Marco stood in the doorway, breathing hard, his tactical vest strapped over his dress shirt.
“Boss,” Marco said, his voice flat with immediate danger. “Silvio Moretti’s convoy has just breached the security gate on the lower concourse.”
Father Bernardo crossed himself rapidly, his rosary beads clattering against his robes.
Dante did not flinch.
He did not remove his hand from my jaw.
He simply looked at Marco over his shoulder with an expression of icy, clinical detachment.
“Did they bring weapons?” Dante asked.
“Four cars, ten men. All carrying concealed automatics,” Marco replied. “Silvio demands an audience. He says he wants to congratulate his newly discovered niece in person.”
Dante’s hand slowly dropped from my face.
He turned to me, his amber eyes blazing with an unholy, dark light.
“It seems your family has arrived for the reception, Eliza.”
May you like
He extended his arm toward me, bending his elbow in a formal, courtly gesture.
“Shall we go greet your father’s murderer?”
