Chapter 9 - The Judge at the Altar
By sunrise, nobody believed the wedding was a wedding anymore.
It was a meeting.
A transfer.
A trap.
And possibly an execution with flowers.
Judge Malcolm Hayes had officiated Moretti family weddings for decades.
He had also dismissed warrants.
Sealed records.
Approved business settlements.
And, according to Teresa’s copied files, received more than four million dollars through consulting companies controlled by his brother.
Evelyn Hart wanted to cancel everything.
Luca refused.
“If we cancel, Salvatore disappears.”
“If you proceed, people could die.”
“If we cancel, Teresa could die.”
Evelyn stared at him.
“You’re willing to risk a cathedral full of people?”
“No guests.”
“What?”
Luca took out his phone.
“The wedding becomes private.”
“No extended family.”
“No politicians.”
“No business associates.”
“Only people Salvatore expects to see.”
Dominic understood.
“A controlled room.”
“Yes.”
Vanessa stood near the window.
“Salvatore will know.”
“Not until he arrives.”
Daniel shook his head.
“He may have people inside the cathedral.”
“Then we identify them.”
Evelyn looked at Luca.
“You understand that if I bring federal agents into this, they are not your employees.”
“I know.”
“They may uncover crimes that belong to you.”
“I know.”
“They may arrest you.”
Luca looked at his father’s recording on the table.
“Then they arrest me.”
Dominic stared at him.
Luca continued.
“My father spent years protecting this family from consequences.”
“I’m not doing it again.”
Something in the room changed.
Vanessa looked away.
Maybe because that decision made Luca more dangerous to Salvatore than any weapon could.
He was willing to lose the empire.
By noon, St. Catherine’s was closed to the public.
The official explanation was a private family ceremony.
Evelyn’s people entered disguised as maintenance workers and church staff.
Judge Hayes arrived at three.
He wore a black suit.
Carried a leather Bible.
Smiled at Luca like an old family friend.
“Big day.”
Luca shook his hand.
“Very.”
Hayes noticed me near the side aisle.
His smile disappeared for less than a second.
Enough.
He knew my face.
I walked toward him.
“Judge Hayes.”
“Have we met?”
“No.”
I smiled.
“But you knew my father.”
His fingers tightened around the Bible.
“I’m afraid I don’t know who your father is.”
“Daniel Dawson.”
The color left his face.
Then returned.
Carefully.
“Name doesn’t ring a bell.”
Liar.
Luca saw it too.
Hayes excused himself.
He walked toward the sacristy.
Evelyn followed at a distance.
Five minutes later she returned.
“He made a call.”
“To whom?”
“We couldn’t hear.”
“What did he say?”
“One sentence.”
She looked at me.
“Claire Dawson is here.”
My skin prickled.
Then the cathedral doors opened.
Salvatore entered.
Alone.
No guards.
No obvious fear.
He wore a perfectly tailored navy suit.
A white rose in his lapel.
He approached Luca and kissed his cheek.
“My boy.”
Luca held his gaze.
“Uncle.”
Salvatore looked at Dominic.
“Son.”
Dominic’s face hardened.
“Don’t call me that.”
Salvatore smiled.
Then he looked at me.
For a moment, his expression softened.
“You have your father’s eyes.”
Every muscle in my body went rigid.
“You knew him.”
“Yes.”
“How well?”
“Well enough to regret what happened.”
“Did you kill him?”
Luca stepped closer.
Salvatore did not flinch.
“No.”
I wanted to believe nothing he said.
Yet the answer came without hesitation.
“Who did?”
Salvatore glanced toward the altar.
Judge Hayes was arranging papers.
“That is a more complicated question.”
“Make it simple.”
Salvatore looked back at me.
“Your father discovered that someone inside the state investigation had been selling confidential information to Anthony.”
My heart hammered.
“Judge Hayes?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Salvatore gave me a small, sad smile.
“You still think the photograph shows the important person.”
He walked away.
I looked back at the old picture.
My father.
Salvatore.
Judge Hayes reflected in the mirror.
Then I noticed something I had missed.
On the table beside my father was a woman’s hand.
Only the hand.
A ring.
Large sapphire.
Old-fashioned setting.
I had seen that ring before.
In the Moretti family photographs.
It belonged to Luca’s mother.
Isabella Moretti.
The woman everyone said had died when Luca was twelve.
I turned toward him.
“Luca.”
He saw my face.
“What?”
I handed him the photograph.
“Your mother was there.”
His eyes found the ring.
All the blood drained from his face.
“That’s impossible.”
Then Salvatore’s voice came from behind us.
“No.”
He said quietly.
“It isn’t.”
Luca turned.
Salvatore held his gaze.
“Your mother didn’t die when you were twelve.”
The cathedral seemed to disappear around us.
Luca whispered, “What did you say?”
Salvatore’s expression finally lost its polish.
May you like
“She died eight years ago.”
The same year as my father.
