Chapter 7 - The Altar of Ruin
Darkness swallowed the sanctuary.
A collective gasp swept through the two hundred guests as the soaring vaulted ceiling plunged into absolute blackness, broken only by the flickering red sanctuary lamps behind the altar.
In that instant, before the panic could find its voice, I flipped the toggle on the radio jammer inside my clutch.
A high-pitched electronic shriek tore through the hidden earpieces of every shooter in the cathedral. In the choir loft, a man cried out in pain as the feedback scrambled his comms.
Behind the high altar, the sacristy doors did not burst open with the caterer’s carbines.
Instead, the four massive industrial floodlights Dominic’s men had secretly mounted to the stone columns snapped on with a blinding, blue-white glare that illuminated the sanctuary like a stadium.
Screams erupted from the pews.
Standing in the center of the altar, Vivienne blinked against the blinding light, her hand ripping away from Dominic’s grip as she looked toward the sacristy doors.
The doors opened, but it wasn't her strike team.
Gabriel Hayes walked through the archway, followed by six federal marshals in tactical gear. Pushed before them, his hands zip-tied behind his back, his ruined knee dragging across the sanctuary carpet, was Elias Crowe.
A horrific shriek tore from Vivienne’s throat—not of terror, but of pure, unadulterated venom.
“Dominic!” Marcus Vance yelled, stepping between Dominic and the federal agents, his voice full of righteous authority. “What is the meaning of this outrage? This is a holy sacrament!”
Dominic turned slowly to face his godfather.
“The sacrament was over the moment you wired nine hundred thousand dollars to North Harbor Management, Marcus,” Dominic said. His voice was not loud, but the acoustic resonance of the cathedral carried every syllable to the back row of the gallery.
Marcus froze, his aristocrat’s face crumbling into ash. “I... I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie in the house of God, Uncle,” Dominic said softly. He reached into his tuxedo jacket, pulled out a stack of folded documents, and tossed them at Marcus’s polished dress shoes. “The manifests for The Albatross. The offshore routing numbers. The purchase orders for the Austrian automatic weapons currently sitting in federal evidence at Pier 42. It’s all there. Signed in your hand, verified by your signet ring.”
Julian Beaumont lunged forward, trying to pull his daughter toward the side aisle, but two federal agents blocked the nave with raised shotguns.
“This is a setup!” Vivienne screamed, her beautiful face contorting into an animalistic snarl as she tore the Brussels lace veil from her hair and threw it onto the marble floor. “You arrogant bastard! You think you own this city? You’re nothing but a dock rat with a tailor!”
Dominic looked at her with an expression of profound, devastating indifference. “I may be a dock rat, Vivienne. But I’m a dock rat who knows how to balance his books.”
He turned his head toward the fourteenth row.
“Beatrice,” Dominic called out across the silent, terrified congregation.
Every head in the cathedral whipped around to look at me.
My heart hammered against my throat, but I stood up. I took off my wide-brimmed felt hat, tossed it onto the oak pew, and walked down the center aisle toward the high altar. My heels clicked with crisp, measured authority against the marble flags where Vivienne’s bridal train had swept minutes earlier.
As I reached the foot of the sanctuary, Marcus Vance glared down at me, his eyes wide with disbelief and burning fury. “Gallagher? Thomas’s little clerk? You did this?”
“My father kept your books for twenty years, Mr. Vance,” I said, meeting his bloodshot eyes without flinching. “You should have known better than to leave forty thousand dollars unaccounted for in the freight ledger. A Gallagher always balances the bottom line.”
Dominic extended his hand down from the altar step.
May you like
I looked at his broad, calloused palm, the strong fingers that had held a gun at dawn, and I placed my hand in his. He pulled me up onto the marble platform beside him, turning to face the city’s elite with his fingers intertwined firmly with mine.
“The wedding is canceled,” Dominic announced to the frozen room. “The reception, however, will be held at the Metropolitan Correctional Center. Officers, take them away.”
