Vows of Vengeance

Chapter 3 - Cathedral Vows

The bullet tore through the foyer chandelier instead of Dante’s chest. Crystal exploded like deadly snowflakes as he tackled Sophia to the marble floor, his body a shield over hers. The masked shooter vanished into the smoke, footsteps swallowed by pandemonium.

Dante rolled off her, gun already in hand, barking orders in Italian. Guards swarmed, herding screaming guests toward exits while others fanned out with rifles raised. The acrid bite of gunpowder mixed with spilled champagne and fear-sweat.

Sophia’s ears rang. She pushed up on elbows slick with someone’s blood—Vito’s, maybe, slumped against the wall clutching his thigh. Dante hauled her to her feet, fingers digging into her arm hard enough to bruise.

“Who?” she demanded, voice raw.

“Later.” He dragged her through a side door into the estate’s private chapel—a miniature gothic masterpiece of stained glass and flickering candles. The door slammed, muffling the chaos outside.

Moonlight filtered through the rose window, painting them in blood-red shards. Dante locked the door, then rounded on her, eyes wild.

“You’re bleeding.” He cupped her face, thumb smearing something warm across her cheek—his blood or hers, impossible to tell.

“So are you.” A graze along his temple, shallow but gruesome.

He tore a strip from the altar cloth—ironic, silk meant for baptisms and funerals—and pressed it to her forehead. “The text. ‘She’s here.’ Any idea who she is?”

Sophia’s mind raced. The Polaroid. The warehouse. Luca’s phone call. “No. But your brother’s neck-deep in this.”

Dante’s jaw clenched. “Luca’s ambitious, not suicidal. Shooting up his own engagement party?” He shook his head. “Someone else.”

A fist pounded on the chapel door. “Boss! Rossis breached the east gate!”

Dante’s gaze flicked to the crucifix above the altar, then back to her. “We’re leaving. Now.”

He pulled her toward a hidden panel behind the confessional—another escape route, because of course there was. They emerged in the underground garage where the Maserati waited, engine already growling courtesy of a remote start.

Sirens wailed closer—police or rivals, impossible to tell. Dante floored it up the ramp, tires screeching as they burst into the night. Gunfire popped behind them like fireworks.

Sophia clutched the dash. “Where are we going?”

“Someplace they won’t look.” He took a sharp turn onto Lake Shore Drive, the city a blur of lights and rain. “Until the wedding.”

She laughed—sharp, hysterical. “You still want to marry me after someone just tried to kill us?”

He glanced over, expression unreadable. “Especially now. A war’s coming, Sophia. And I need you on my side.”

Forty-eight hours later, Sophia stood in the bridal suite of St. Michael’s Cathedral, staring at her reflection in a three-way mirror. The gown was ivory silk and Venetian lace, veil long enough to hide a multitude of sins. Diamonds at her throat—Dante’s mother’s, apparently. A gift or a curse.

Her hands shook as she pinned the veil. This is insane. She’d come to destroy the Morettis, not become one. Yet here she was, about to vow forever to the man who might be innocent—and who’d kissed her like she was salvation and damnation in one breath.

A knock. The door opened to reveal Dante’s aunt, a tiny woman drowning in black taffeta. “Time, tesoro. The groom waits.”

Sophia followed her down the nave, organ thundering Bach’s Toccata. The cathedral was packed—Moretti allies on one side, Rossi holdouts on the other, a DMZ of white lilies down the center aisle. Cameras flashed; this wedding would headline every society page and dark web forum by nightfall.

Dante stood at the altar, black tux severe as a funeral. His eyes locked on her the second she appeared, and for a moment, the world narrowed to storm-gray and desperate hunger. He looked like a man staring at his last meal.

She reached him. The priest—old, trembling, clearly terrified—began the rites in Latin. Sophia barely heard. Her pulse was a war drum.

“Do you, Sophia Maria Rossi, take this man…”

She stared at Dante’s outstretched hand. The black diamond glinted beside a new band—platinum, engraved with tiny roses and thorns. Choose, it seemed to say. Throne or grave.

“I do,” she heard herself say.

The ring slid on like a shackle.

Dante’s turn. His voice was steady, but his hand trembled as he slipped the band on her finger. “With this ring, I thee wed. And with my body, I thee protect.”

The priest pronounced them married. Dante kissed her—slow, claiming, tasting of vows and violence. The congregation erupted in applause that sounded like gunfire.

Then the screaming started.

Sophia pulled back, following Dante’s sudden tense gaze. At the back of the cathedral, the massive doors burst open. Masked figures in tactical gear stormed in, rifles raised.

“Get down!” Dante shoved her behind the altar as bullets shredded stained glass. Shards rained like judgment day.

Chaos exploded. Guests dove for cover; enforcers returned fire. The priest crumpled, blood blooming across his vestments.

Dante dragged her through the sacristy, kicking open a side door into the cloister. Rain lashed the stone courtyard. “The car’s this way—”

A figure stepped from the shadows. Luca. Soaked, smiling, gun casual in his hand.

“Congratulations, brother.” His gaze slid to Sophia. “Sister.”

Dante leveled his own weapon. “You orchestrated this?”

Luca laughed. “Me? I’m just the messenger.” He tossed something at Dante’s feet—a flash drive in a plastic bag. “Play this. Then ask your bride why her husband really died.”

Security poured into the courtyard, guns trained on Luca. He raised his hands, still grinning. “See you at the reception.”

He melted into the storm before anyone could stop him.

Dante picked up the drive, expression carved from ice. “We’re going home.”

The Moretti compound was a fortress under siege—gates reinforced, snipers on rooftops. Dante marched Sophia straight to his war room, slammed the drive into a laptop.

The screen flickered to life. Grainy security footage: Marco, alive, meeting a man in a dark alley. The man turned—Dante, younger, arguing heatedly. Then Marco pulled a gun. Dante disarmed him, pistol-whipped him unconscious.

But the timestamp—three days before Marco’s murder.

Another file: audio. Marco’s voice, panicked. “I’ll tell them everything—how you framed the Rossis, how you’re skimming to fund your own takeover—”

The recording cut to gunfire. Then silence.

Sophia’s knees buckled. Dante caught her before she hit the floor.

“He was going to expose me,” Dante said quietly. “I knocked him out, left him for my men to question. But someone else got there first.”

She stared at him. “You didn’t kill him.”

“No.” His thumb brushed her cheek, smearing tears she hadn’t realized were falling. “But I might as well have. Luca used that footage to paint me as the monster. He ordered the hit, carved our crest into the bullets to frame me.”

The door burst open. Vito, limping, face grim. “Boss. We found this on the cathedral altar.”

He held a single red rose, thorns dripping blood. Pinned to it: a note in elegant script.

You’re next, bride. –L

Dante crushed the rose in his fist. “Lock down the compound. No one in or out.”

Vito hesitated. “There’s more. The Rossis just declared war. They’re saying you murdered their capo’s widow’s husband in cold blood—and now you’ve married her to cover it up.”

Sophia laughed bitterly. “Perfect. I’m the spark that lights the fuse.”

Dante pulled her against him, voice lethal soft. “Then we burn together.”

His phone buzzed. Unknown number. He answered on speaker.

Luca’s voice purred through the line. “Enjoy the honeymoon, brother. Because by sunrise, she’ll be widowed again.”

The call ended.

Dante stared at the phone, then at Sophia. Something shifted in his eyes—resignation, maybe. Or resolve.

He kissed her hard, tasting of copper and desperation. “Pack a bag. We’re leaving Chicago.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere Luca can’t touch us.” He cupped her face. “But first, I need to know—after everything, do you believe me?”

She searched his face—the man who’d married her for protection, who’d killed for her, who’d never once lied about the monster he could be.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Relief flashed across his features, gone as quickly as it came.

Outside, thunder rolled. Inside, alarms began to scream—perimeter breach.

Dante grabbed a duffel from under the desk, tossed her a Glock. “Time to run, Mrs. Moretti.”

They sprinted for the garage as explosions rocked the compound’s east wall. In the rearview mirror, flames licked the sky.

And taped beneath the dashboard, a tiny red light blinked—live feed, transmitting everything.

Someone was watching.