The chapel doors were locked from the inside, and every man guarding them worked for the groom. My father stood beside me in the aisle, squeezing my wrist hard enough to bruise,

One year after the rainy night in Saint Jude’s chapel, the city of New York belonged to us.

The financial ledgers were clean. The charitable foundations were thriving, funded by the confiscated assets of corrupt men who had tried to turn human lives into currency. The waterfront shipping lanes operated under our absolute, unbreakable protection.

And on a warm, golden autumn afternoon, standing on the sunlit stone terrace of our estate overlooking the sparkling waters of the Hudson River, there was no fear left in my heart.

I wore a simple, elegant ivory silk dress—chosen by myself, paid for with my own money, and worn for a man who didn't buy me, but chose to stand beside me as an equal.

Luca stood before me, holding my hands in his, a quiet, profound love shining in his dark eyes as the magistrate pronounced us husband and wife.

There were no forced vows. There was no terrified father squeezing my wrist to the point of bruising. There were no armed guards locking the doors from the inside.

There was only the warm breeze, the sound of the river, and a future built entirely by our own hands.

When Luca leaned down and kissed me, the cheers of our closest friends and allies rose into the afternoon air.

My father was rotting in a federal prison cell. Damian Vale was buried under endless appeals in a maximum-security penitentiary. And the frightened girl in the mud-soaked wedding dress was gone forever.