Chapter 9 - The Vows at Sea
Six months later.
The private yacht The Sea Phoenix glided smoothly across the crystal-blue waters three miles off the coast of Newport, Rhode Island.
The afternoon sun was brilliant and warm, reflecting off the white hull and the gentle ocean swells. Banners of white orchids and cream roses lined the teak decks, moving softly in the summer breeze.
There were no media cameras. No federal informants. No rival bosses from Manhattan or Montreal.
There were only thirty people on board: Dr. Rossi, Marco Rossi, several close family friends from Italy, the legal team who had helped build our foundation, and Emma, who wore a white silk flower-girl dress with a silver sash, holding a basket of yellow rose petals.
I stood in the private stateroom on the upper deck, looking at myself in the full-length mirror.
My wedding dress was simple—a bias-cut ivory silk gown with a long, draped back and delicate long sleeves that covered the faint scar on my wrist where the IV lines had been placed six months ago. My hair was gathered into a soft low knot, held in place by a single fresh white orchid.
There was no red dress. No ruby phoenix clips. No shadows of the past.
A soft knock came at the door.
“Come in,” I called out.
The door opened, and Dr. Rossi stepped into the room, wearing an immaculate black tuxedo with a white rose on his lapel. He looked healthier, his cheeks warm, his round spectacles polished bright.
“You look breathtaking, Clara,” Dr. Rossi said, his eyes shining with fatherly pride.
“Thank you, Roberto,” I said, walking over to him and adjusting his bow tie. “Thank you for saving my life three times in that basement.”
“I only kept your heart beating, my dear,” Dr. Rossi smiled gently, taking both my hands in his. “You were the one who had the courage to wake up.”
He offered me his arm. “The captain says the sea is calm. Alessandro is waiting on the main deck.”
I took his arm, slipped my hand through his elbow, and stepped out onto the sunlit deck.
The string quartet began playing La Ninna Nanna di Maria—the Sicilian lullaby I had retrieved from Vienna, arranged into a slow, majestic bridal march by a local conservatory director.
Alessandro stood at the altar set up at the bow of the yacht, framed by the blue horizon of the ocean and the sky.
He wore a custom black tuxedo, his posture erect, his eyes fixed on me as I walked down the teak aisle.
When Dr. Rossi placed my hand in his, Alessandro’s grip was warm, steady, and gentle. He looked down at me, his eyes filled with a deep, quiet devotion that made the rest of the world melt away into the blue water around us.
The captain of the vessel, acting under maritime law, stepped forward to conduct the ceremony.
“Do you, Alessandro Moretti, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do you part?”
Alessandro looked directly into my eyes.
“I do,” he said, his voice rich and unwavering. “I give you my life, my name, and every breath I have left.”
“And do you, Clara Vance, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do,” I spoke, my voice clear and sure, carrying across the quiet sea. “I give you my trust, my heart, and my home.”
Alessandro reached into his pocket, pulled out a simple platinum ring set with a single flawless white diamond, and slipped it onto my finger. I slid a matching platinum band onto his finger.
“By the power vested in me by the maritime laws of this state,” the captain announced with a warm smile, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.”
May you like
Alessandro pulled me into his arms, dipping me slightly as he pressed his lips to mine in a kiss that tasted of ocean air, warm sunlight, and absolute, everlasting peace.
Emma stepped forward, tossing her fistful of yellow rose petals into the air, while Marco Rossi and the rest of the guests erupted into warm, joyful applause that echoed off the white hull into the open sea.
