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.

Elena’s fake smile shattered. "Matteo... what are you talking about? It's a joke, right?"

Matteo took a step back from the altar. He raised his right hand and snapped his fingers.

The sound was instantly followed by the deafening crack of three simultaneous sniper shots from the choir loft above. But the bullets didn't hit Matteo.

The three Falcone snipers plummeted over the balcony railing, their lifeless bodies crashing onto the marble floor below, sending the wedding guests into a screaming, chaotic frenzy.

"Lock the doors!" Matteo roared over the panic.

The heavy oak doors at the back of the cathedral slammed shut, the metallic clank of heavy deadbolts sealing the six hundred guests inside.

Elena screamed, realizing the trap had been reversed. She lunged for her garter, where a small silver derringer was strapped to her thigh, but Matteo was faster. He grabbed her wrist, twisting it brutally until she dropped to her knees, the white silk of her gown pooling on the floor.

The caterers—the Falcone hitmen—drew their weapons, but Matteo’s men, disguised as groomsmen and ushers, drew theirs faster. A brutal, synchronized bloodbath erupted in the aisles. Suppressed gunfire spat through the air, cutting down every Falcone operative before they could even aim at the altar.

Within sixty seconds, the cathedral was silent again, save for the terrified sobbing of the guests cowering beneath the wooden pews. The scent of cordite and copper completely overpowered the smell of the white roses.