Chapter 8

The door swung open the next morning.

Alessandra stood in the doorway in full formal wear, two bodyguards in black suits right behind her.

"The Underboss is still tied up. Ceremony is pushed to tonight." Her mother eyed Aurelia's rumpled shirt, her brow knotting hard. "You're dressed like that? Every boss in the city is waiting out front. You trying to humiliate the whole family?"

Aurelia zipped her duffel shut. She didn't answer.

Alessandra sneered, pulled a chipped velvet box from her clutch, and tossed it onto the desk.

"Take it. An old piece Bianca didn't want, but at least it has diamonds," Alessandra said coldly. "Wear it when you make the rounds tonight. Don't let people think we treat you like dirt."

The box popped open an inch.

Inside lay a tarnished brooch. The pin on the back was bent. Two tiny diamond chips were missing, exposing blackened glue underneath.

Aurelia was ten when Alessandra sent her to run drops for the family. A rival crew cornered her in a back alley and broke her rib. Back then, the woman pointed at this exact brooch in a shop window. She promised it as a family heirloom for her wedding day if she kept her mouth shut.

Turns out it was just Bianca's broken junk from the storage room.

Aurelia reached out and clicked the box shut.

"Understood," she said.

Aurelia obeyed like she always did. Alessandra's disgust only deepened. She spun on her heels and walked out. "Get changed. Don't make me tell you twice."

The second the footsteps faded, Aurelia swept the box straight into the trash can by her boots.

She picked up her bag and took the back stairs down.

She didn't look at the banners stamped with the family crest. She didn't look at the altar. She slipped through the side door into the alley and climbed into an unmarked gray pickup with cloned plates.

Two hours later. The docks.

Her screen lit up with a video clip from Bianca.

The camera shook, pointing at the massive bed in the master suite. Lucian lay fast asleep on his back, his heavy arm draped over Bianca's bare shoulder. On the nightstand sat the wedding bands meant for tonight's vows.

Bianca's whispered voice came through, dripping with laughter:

"Sorry to keep you waiting, sister. He can't get out of bed."

Aurelia watched it. No anger. Just cold disgust.

She powered down the burner and popped the tray. With two fingers, she snapped the SIM card clean in half across the golden chip, then dropped the pieces down the storm drain.

The old boatman looked her up and down. He asked no questions. He just jerked his chin toward the deck. "Port lockdown in ten minutes."

Aurelia stepped onto the rusted gangway.

The tug cast off lines and backed out of the slip. Propellers churned the dirty water into yellow foam.

Shoreline lights shrank into the dark. Soon, only a thin yellow line remained on the horizon.

All the love, all the hate, swallowed whole by the ocean.

Seven that night. The main chapel.

The capos and elders took their seats, cold-faced, tapping restless fingers against the leather arms of their chairs.

The ceremony was an hour late.

Lucian stood dead center on the altar in a sharp black tuxedo, one hand stuffed into his pocket. He swirled a glass, working the room with effortless poise. "Port sweeps held things up. The bride is on her way. Sit tight, gentlemen."

Only he knew the truth. He had dialed her private line seventeen times. Seventeen times he got a dead dial tone.

Five minutes ago, his comm pinged with an offshore voice memo.

He tapped it. Aurelia's voice came through, flat and icy: [Left you a big surprise at the altar. Open it on time.]

Lucian gripped his crystal glass tighter, his throat working as he swallowed down a wave of raw irritation.

He knew that woman.

For twenty years, she lived like a dog crawling through the mud. Toss her a bone, and she would hold on even with a blade in her gut. She had nowhere to run. She had nothing to run with.

The chapel bell tolled eight.

The four massive armored screens above the altar flickered violently. The Sterling and Castiglione crests vanished.

The four screens flared. Across the surround-sound system, a familiar video blasted straight through the chapel.

The audio was scrubbed clean of static, crystal clear:

"...Without the West Docks books, would you still marry her?"