The terrifying part wasn’t the marriage. It was that Dominic already knew something about me before the first shot was fired, a secret he believed could destroy us both if I ever learned the truth.

The ancient stained-glass windows of St. Jude Cathedral glowed dimly against the stormy night sky.

Inside the massive stone nave, forty men in tailored suits sat in the carved wooden pews. At the altar stood Victor Costa—a ruthless, silver-haired man in his late fifties, wearing an expensive camel-hair coat. He held a glass of scotch, addressing the heads of the New York crime families.

"Dominic Rossi is dead," Victor announced loudly, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "His estate was burned to the ground two hours ago. The Rossi dynasty is over. Under the old laws of the charter, I claim the Brooklyn terminals and the unification of our territories!"

BOOM!

The heavy oak front doors of the cathedral blew off their hinges, crashing onto the marble floor in a cloud of splinters and dust.

A dozen tactical guards in black combat gear poured into the cathedral, securing the side aisles with automatic rifles.

Through the smoke stepped Dominic Rossi.

He walked down the center aisle like a king returning from exile, his eyes fixed on Victor Costa. Beside him, dressed in an elegant black velvet gown that concealed her chest bandages, walked Clara Rossi.

Panicked shouts echoed through the pews as men reached for their jackets, but Dominic’s tactical team instantly painted forty red laser sights across the room.

"Sit down!" Dominic’s voice boomed like thunder through the cathedral. "Every man in this room stays in his pew or dies where he stands!"

Victor Costa’s face turned pale as a corpse. He stumbled back against the altar railing, his glass dropping to the marble floor, shattering.

"Rossi..." Victor gasped, his eyes darting frantically to the doors. "Enzo said..."

"Enzo is feeding the worms in my basement," Dominic said coldly, stopping ten feet from the altar steps.

I stepped forward beside Dominic, holding my head high, the light from the altar candles illuminating my face.

"Look at me, Victor," I said, my voice strong, echoing clearly through the massive stone sanctuary.

Victor stared at me, his jaw trembling. "You... you look just like Ellen..."

"My mother is Ellen Costa," I declared, taking a step up the altar stairs. "The woman you hunted for twenty-two years. The woman whose husband you murdered in cold blood. I am Clara Vance Rossi. Under the original 1998 charter signed by my grandfather, your claim to the Costa family trust and territories was voided the moment you shed family blood."

I pulled a certified legal document from my coat—stamped by the highest court in the state—and tossed it onto the altar carpet.

"You have no title, Victor," I said fiercely. "You have no empire. You are nothing but a thief waiting for his sentence."

Victor’s face twisted into a grotesque rage. Realizing his entire life’s work was crumbling in front of the city’s underworld, he reached into his coat for a hidden snub-nosed revolver, aiming it directly at my chest.

"I should have killed you twenty years ago!" Victor screamed.

BANG!

Dominic didn't hesitate. Before Victor’s finger could pull the trigger, Dominic drew his weapon and fired three precise shots directly into Victor Costa’s chest.

Victor staggered back, hitting the marble steps, his gun clattering uselessly down the aisle. He looked down at the blood blooming across his fine camel-hair coat, then collapsed onto the altar carpet, motionless.

Dominic lowered his weapon, his cold gaze sweeping across the terrified heads of the other families sitting in the pews.