At exactly two o’clock in the morning, a thirsty four-year-old boy padded barefoot into the mahogany hallway of New York’s most ruthless crime syndicate leader and shattered the illusion that had protected him for three years.

The organ music swelled, shaking the stained-glass windows of the ancient cathedral. The pews were packed with six hundred guests—the elite, the corrupt, and the dangerous.

Matteo Rossi stood at the altar, looking like a dark god in his bespoke tuxedo. His hands were clasped loosely in front of him, his posture completely relaxed. To the untrained eye, he was a man waiting for his true love. To the men strategically positioned in the shadows, he was a predator waiting for the trap to snap shut.

The massive oak doors at the back of the church swung open, and the crowd stood.

Elena walked down the aisle, her face obscured by a sheer veil, her arm looped through her uncle’s. She looked perfect. She looked victorious.

As she approached the altar, she made eye contact with Matteo. She offered him a trembling, emotional smile. Matteo returned it with a slow, chilling smirk that didn't reach his eyes.

She took her place beside him, handing her bouquet to her maid of honor. The priest, a man sweating profusely and clutching his Bible with white knuckles, began the ceremony.

"Dearly beloved," the priest stammered, his eyes darting nervously toward the choir loft.

Matteo didn't listen to the words. He was counting. He tracked the subtle movements of the caterers blocking the side exits. He saw the glint of a rifle scope from the balcony out of his peripheral vision.

Five... four... three...

"Matteo Rossi, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?" the priest rushed out, skipping half the traditional vows.

Elena looked at Matteo, her eyes shining with fake tears. She was waiting for him to say the words. She was waiting for the signal for the snipers to fire.