Chapter 3 - The Morning After
The headline of the Boston Globe standard edition was printed in massive, bold black ink: ALTAR ALTERATION: MORETTI SEIZES THE BRIDE.
The article featured a high-resolution photograph of Vincent and me walking down the steps of City Hall at 9:00 AM. I was no longer wearing the soft, romantic white gown Brooke had picked out. Instead, I wore a tailored, cream-colored Victoria Beckham pantsuit with sharp shoulders and an asymmetric blazer. My hair was pulled back into a sleek, low ponytail, and a massive, emerald-cut diamond ring—Vincent’s grandmother’s ring, which he had slipped onto my finger just an hour prior—caught the morning sun like a weapon.
Vincent stood beside me, his hand resting firmly on the small of my back, a protective, possessive gesture that sent a clear message to every photographer behind the barricades: Touch her, and I will destroy you.
"Look at them," my grandmother, Nora, chuckled from the kitchen island of Vincent's multi-million-dollar brownstone in Beacon Hill. She was sipping Earl Grey tea from a porcelain cup, looking happier than she had in years. "The Whitmores are probably throwing up their expensive mimosas right now. Serves that miserable Eleanor right. She always looked at me like I was something she found on the bottom of her shoe."
"Are you okay, Nana?" I asked, walking over and kissing her lined cheek. "I’m sorry about the drama at the church. I know you wanted a traditional wedding."
"Traditional is boring, Maddy," she said, her blue eyes twinkling with the classic South Boston grit she had passed down to me. "Your grandfather always said that if you’re going to hit someone back, you don't slap them. You use a hammer. Vincent Moretti looks like a very fine hammer."
Vincent walked into the kitchen, wearing a dark grey Tom Ford suit, buttoning his cuffs. He paused when he saw my grandmother, bowing his head slightly in a gesture of old-world respect that surprised me.
"Mrs. Hayes," he said smoothly. "The security detail has finished setting up the surveillance array at your house in Southie. You can return whenever you like, but I would prefer if you stayed here for the next few weeks. The Whitmores are going to get desperate, and desperate people do foolish things."
"Call me Nora, son," my grandmother said, waving her hand. "And don't worry about me. I survived the busing riots of the seventies; Eleanor Whitmore doesn't scare me. But you... take care of my girl. She’s had a hard year."
Vincent’s gaze shifted to me, his expression softening for a fraction of a second before hardening back into his default mask of corporate steel. "She is a Moretti now, Nora. No one touches her."
My phone buzzed on the counter. This time, it wasn't a text. It was a formal email invitation from the Boston Real Estate Gala, an event happening in exactly three days. The digital card had a personal note attached from the event chair: We look forward to welcoming Mr. and Mrs. Vincent Moretti.
May you like
"They're trying to capitalize on the scandal," I said, showing Vincent the screen. "The Whitmores will be there. They’re on the board of directors."
"Good," Vincent said, taking a sip of his black coffee. "We’re going to go, Madison. We’re going to buy the front-row table, and we’re going to let Tyler watch as we formally file the eviction notice for his shipping berths in front of every investor in the city."
