Chapter 8 - The Morning of the Wedding
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Saturday morning dawned clear and bright over Boston.
St. Leonard’s Church in the North End was adorned in white lilies and silk ribbons. Black town cars and armored SUVs lined the streets, bringing the elite, the corrupt, and the dangerous together under one holy roof.
Inside the Duca estate, it was organized chaos.
Mrs. Dora was shouting orders in the kitchen. Caterers were carrying massive trays of food to the waiting trucks for the reception.
Clara stood in the quiet of the second-floor corridor. Noel was safe in Chelsea today. Clara wore her gray uniform, clutching the charged flip phone in her apron pocket. It felt heavier than a brick.
She had listened to the recordings at 3:00 AM. They were crystal clear. Judge Moretti laughing with a rival boss, detailing exactly how Vivian would ensure Raphael’s financial ledgers were left vulnerable for an FBI raid six months after the wedding.
It was a death sentence.
Clara walked slowly toward the library. The door was open.
Raphael stood by the window, already dressed in his bespoke charcoal Milan suit. He looked incredibly isolated, a solitary king preparing to walk into a trap he didn't even know existed. On his desk sat the glass of Barolo wine, poured for a dead father.
Clara stepped into the doorway. "Mr. Duca."
Raphael turned. He did not look surprised to see her, only tired.
"The cars are leaving in ten minutes, Clara," Raphael said quietly. "Mrs. Dora needs you downstairs."
Clara took a step into the room, her hand gripping the phone in her pocket. Her heart began its terrifying, erratic fluttering. The pain shot up her neck, dizzying and sharp. She had to tell him. She had to give him the phone.
"Sir, please," Clara gasped, leaning against the doorframe, her vision blurring at the edges. "I need to show you something. It's about Vivian. It's about the judge."
Raphael’s brow furrowed. He took a step toward her. "Clara, you're pale. Sit down."
"No," she insisted, pulling the phone halfway out of her pocket. "You can't marry her. They're going to—"
"Raphael!"
Vivian’s voice echoed down the corridor. She appeared behind Clara, dressed in a silk robe, her hair perfectly styled. She looked annoyed.
"The cars are waiting, and you're chatting with the cleaning staff?" Vivian scoffed, shooting Clara a look of pure venom. "Get downstairs, girl. Now."
Clara froze. The pain in her chest spiked, stealing the breath from her lungs. She looked at Raphael. His dark eyes shifted from Clara to Vivian, the mask of the untouchable boss slamming back into place.
"Go downstairs, Clara," Raphael said, his voice flat, completely devoid of the quiet empathy he usually showed her.
May you like
He was protecting his bride's ego. He was playing the part.
Clara let the phone slip back into her pocket. She bowed her head, the limp heavy and pronounced, and walked away. The opportunity was gone.
