Chapter 8 - The Boardroom Mutiny
The wedding day dawned with a heavy, bruised sky that threatened a Pacific squall.
By noon, the Grand Ballroom was packed to capacity. The elite guests whispered among themselves in nervous clusters, sensing that something was fundamentally wrong beneath the pristine veneer of the billion-dollar celebration.
Vivien Russo stood in the bridal suite, her white lace veil pinned to her dark hair, staring at her reflection in the gilded mirror. Her hands were shaking. Julian Vance had promised her hours ago that the loose ends—both the maid and the rebellious groom—would be permanently tied up before the ceremony began.
“Miss Russo,” a bridesmaid knocked frantically on the door, pushing it open without waiting for permission. “It’s time. The guests are taking their seats. But... but there’s no sign of Mr. Romano. And security is swarming the service elevators.”
Vivien took a deep, steadying breath, a triumphant smile spreading across her lips. Everything was falling into place. With Matteo out of the picture, her father would take control of the Romano shipping assets, and the family dynasty would remain untouched.
“Tell the string quartet to begin the processional,” Vivien instructed coldly, smoothing down her immaculate white dress. “The groom will arrive when he’s ready.”
Down in the ballroom, the string quartet struck up the opening notes of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March.
The heavy mahogany doors swung open.
Vivien appeared at the top of the staircase, radiant, white, and untouchable, walking slowly down the red carpet toward the altar where an aging federal judge stood waiting to officiate.
The guests turned in their seats, smiling politely and applauding.
Vivien reached the bottom of the platform, expecting to see her father waiting to give her away. Instead, Arthur Russo was nowhere to be found in the front row.
She turned her gaze toward the altar.
The groom was missing.
Before murmurs could ripple through the crowd, the massive projection screens behind the altar—usually reserved for romantic photo montages of the couple—suddenly flickered to life.
The white lace background vanished.
Instead, high-definition security footage filled the screens, showing Julian Vance and two armed guards entering Cabin Seven at gunpoint in the middle of the night.
A collective gasp echoed through the ballroom.
Then the audio kicked on, filling the hall with Julian’s oily voice: “Unfortunately, dead investigative journalists and nosy maids don't make it to Southampton.”
Vivien froze mid-step, her face draining of all color until she looked like a corpse in a bridal gown.
The side doors of the ballroom burst open.
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Matteo Romano walked down the center aisle, wearing his bespoke midnight-blue tuxedo, looking as calm and lethal as an executioner. And walking right beside him, dressed in a sharp, tailored black pantsuit, was Lena Carter.
In the back of the room, federal marshals in tactical gear marched down the aisles, their badges gleaming under the crystal chandeliers, moving straight toward Arthur Russo and his stunned security detail.
