Chapter 8 - The Tribunal at the Wedding
At 2:00 PM on Saturday, the historic Lancaster Country Club was decorated in magnificent white hydrangeas, cascading ivy, and three hundred guests dressed in high-society finery.
Inside the grand ballroom, Arthur Vance—the sixty-year-old underboss who had ruled the North Jersey underworld for thirty years—sat at the head table beside his nephew, the groom.
Vance was dressed in a bespoke midnight-blue tuxedo, a white rose pinned to his lapel, his diamond pinky ring catching the flashbulbs of the wedding photographers. He was raising a crystal flute of vintage champagne, laughing with two corrupt state senators who sat at his right hand.
"A toast to family!" Arthur Vance announced into the microphone, his voice smooth, cultured, and dripping with manufactured charm. "To loyalty, to legacy, and to the enduring strength of our commercial partnerships across the Eastern Seaboard!"
The heavy double mahogany entrance doors of the ballroom were blown off their hinges by concussive hydraulic force.
The music died mid-note.
The bride screamed.
A collective, stunned gasp swept across three hundred guests as twenty armed federal marshals in tactical gear swept through the archway, carbines held at the high ready, followed by thirty private security operatives from House Moretti who systematically sealed every exit, service corridor, and terrace door in the hall.
Dominic Moretti strode down the center carpeted aisle.
He wore an impeccably tailored charcoal three-piece suit beneath a heavy black wool overcoat, his presence commanding immediate, breathless terror across the entire room.
Walking on his right arm was I.
I wore an elegant, tailored emerald wool power suit Mrs. Ferrara had procured from Manhattan, my dark hair styled in a sophisticated chignon, my chin lifted with absolute, unyielding sovereignty.
Carried securely in the arms of Marco Bellini was three-year-old Lily, dressed in her clean purple dress and strawberry socks, holding her gray rabbit, watching the crystal chandeliers with calm, fearless curiosity.
Behind us walked Frank Callahan, Dominic’s chief corporate litigator, accompanied by Special Agent Raymond Callahan of the FBI’s Organized Crime Strike Force, carrying four heavy steel cases stamped with the gold seal of the United States District Court.
Arthur Vance froze at the head table.
His crystal champagne flute slipped from his fingers, shattering against the linen tablecloth in a violent spray of sparkling wine.
Every drop of color drained from Vance’s face, leaving his skin the shade of wet limestone.
"Moretti...?" Vance stammered, backing away from the podium, his hands shaking violently. "What... what is the meaning of this armed circus? This is a private family celebration!"
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Dominic stopped at the foot of the head table, looking up at his father's murderer with slate-gray eyes that held zero human mercy.
"The celebration is over, Arthur," Dominic said, his baritone booming off the vaulted ceilings like an iron bell. "Because David Hayes just walked into your wedding."
