Chapter 4 - The Shattered Altar
Saturday morning dawned gray and unforgiving.
By noon, the steps of St. Catherine’s Cathedral were lined with black town cars, paparazzi, and Boston’s most powerful families. Senators, port commissioners, old-money shipping dynasties, and high-ranking financiers filed beneath the arched stone entrance.
Inside, the nave was a breathtaking sea of white calla lilies, polished silver candelabras, and fragrant gardenias. A string quartet played a delicate Bach concerto, their bows gliding smoothly over strings, masking the underlying tension in the room.
In the front right pew, Isabella Duca sat draped in emerald velvet, her diamond brooch glinting under the stained glass. Beside her, sitting exactly where Matteo had placed her the day before, was Natalia Russo.
Natalia looked stunning in a couture blush silk gown. On her right wrist, gleaming beneath the cathedral chandeliers, rested the three strands of freshwater pearls and the diamond olive branch clasp. She wore a modest, solemn expression, but her eyes darted constantly toward the altar, soaking in the grandeur.
At the front of the sanctuary stood Matteo Duca.
He wore a tailored midnight-blue tuxedo. His hair was impeccably groomed, his jaw set in a hard, resolute line. He looked every inch the sovereign prince of the Boston waterfront. But those who knew him closely noticed the rigid posture, the way his dark eyes flicked toward the double oak doors at the back of the cathedral every few seconds.
It was 1:58 PM.
The murmurs in the pews grew louder.
“Where is the bride?” whispered a state senator’s wife three rows back.
“I heard there was a fight at the rehearsal,” another voice replied. “Something about a piece of jewelry.”
Matteo’s right hand clenched into a fist behind his back.
He checked the gold Patek Philippe on his wrist.
2:01 PM.
The heavy oak doors remained firmly shut.
Suddenly, a series of phone chimes echoed through the sanctuary.
One ping. Then five. Then fifty.
A wave of vibrations and notification tones rippled across the cathedral like hail on a metal roof. Guests reached into their jackets and designer handbags, pulling out their smartphones.
Isabella Duca frowned, reaching for her phone. Her eyes widened in horror.
Natalia’s phone buzzed in her small clutch. She pulled it out, her face instantly draining of color.
At the altar, the wedding coordinator ran forward from the vestry, her face pale as parchment, clutching an iPad. She rushed straight up the steps to Matteo, her voice shaking uncontrollably.
“Mr. Duca... you need to see this.”
Matteo snatched the iPad from her trembling hands.
The headline was already screaming from the front page of *The Boston Globe*, *Bloomberg Maritime*, and every local news wire:
**BENNETT MARITIME TERMINATES DUCA MERGER: CEO CLARE BENNETT CANCELS NUPTIALS, ACCUSES DUCA LOGISTICS OF PREDATORY RESTRUCTURE AND OFFSHORE BREACH.**
Below the headline was a full, high-resolution photograph of the cream leather marriage agreement Clare had closed the day before, stamped with a single red word across the signature line: **REJECTED.**
And below that was an official press statement authored by Clare herself:
*“Marriage is an institution built on trust, honor, and mutual respect. When contracts are weaponized to conceal offshore shell schemes and basic integrity is replaced by financial intimidation, there is no partnership—only extortion. Bennett Maritime will remain independent. The wedding is canceled.”*
A collective gasp swept through St. Catherine’s.
Guests began whispering frantically, some standing up to get a better look at the front of the church. The string quartet stumbled, the music screeching to a discordant halt.
Matteo stared at the screen. The muscles in his neck strained against his starched collar. A vein pulsed violently at his temple.
He had given her an ultimatum. He had threatened to crush her company, expecting her to crawl to the altar in tears to save her father’s legacy. Instead, she had detonated the bomb in front of the entire eastern seaboard.
Natalia rose quickly from the front pew, gliding toward the altar steps. “Matteo...” she said, her voice dripping with calculated sympathy. “I am so sorry. How could she do this to you? After everything you offered her family?”
Matteo didn't look at her. His gaze was locked on the open doors at the back of the cathedral.
Isabella Duca stood up, her cold, aristocratic voice cutting through the rising commotion. “Matteo. Look at what she has done to our name.”
Matteo lowered the iPad. His voice was dangerously quiet, but it silenced the front three rows.
“Clear the cathedral,” Matteo commanded.
“Matteo, please,” Natalia whispered, reaching out to touch his arm. “Let me stay with you. We can handle the press together. We can release a joint statement—”
Matteo jerked his arm away, glaring down at Natalia’s wrist. The pearls sat there, gleaming in the candle-glow.
For the first time, a dark flicker of doubt crossed his eyes.
“I said clear the church,” Matteo repeated, his voice vibrating with absolute fury. “Now!”
His security guards moved immediately down the aisles, ushering stunned billionaires and socialites toward the exits.
Matteo pulled his phone from his tuxedo pocket and speed-dialed his head of terminal operations.
May you like
“Lock Terminal 4,” Matteo ordered into the phone, his teeth bared in a feral sneer. “Don't wait until midnight. Lock the gates right now. Let the Bennett fleet rot in the harbor.”
***
