Chapter 6 - The Setup
The wedding morning dawned bright, crisp, and deceptively beautiful.
Inside the master suite of the Beacon Street mansion, Raphael stood before the full-length mirror as a tailor adjusted the cuffs of his white dress shirt. His face was like granite. He stared at his reflection, tracing the pale, jagged scar along his jawline with his thumb.
There was a soft knock on the door, and Mrs. Dora entered, carrying a heavy silver tray holding a single crystal glass filled with aged Barolo wine—the very bottle Antonio Duca had purchased decades ago, meant specifically for his son's wedding day.
"It is time, Mr. Raphael," Mrs. Dora said softly, her voice uncharacteristically thick with emotion.
Raphael looked at the dark red wine swirling in the crystal glass. For fifteen years, he had poured a glass of this wine every single night, letting it sit untouched on his library desk until morning. Today, he was supposed to drink it.
Instead, he turned away from the tray. "Leave it on the desk, Dora."
"Mr. Raphael... your father said—"
"I know what my father said," Raphael interrupted, his voice cold. "Let’s go."
Meanwhile, three miles away in a high-rise suite overlooking the harbor, Genevieve Vance stood before a massive vanity mirror while her father paced back and forth behind her, his expensive silk tie slightly loosened.
"Is everything in place?" Julian Vance demanded, his voice sharp.
"Relax, Dad," Genevieve said, applying a final coat of crimson lipstick. Her reflection showed no trace of a blushing bride; her eyes were hard, calculating, and cold. "Once the marriage certificate is signed after the ceremony, our holding company legally acquires fifty-one percent voting rights in the Duca shipping terminals. By Monday afternoon, Raphael will be nothing more than a figurehead working for us."
Julian laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "The great Raphael Duca, brought down by a wedding ring. It’s poetic. Just make sure the priest hurries through the vows. I don't want any loose ends."
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Neither of them knew that a maid working the night shift had spent the last three months photographing every single draft of the Vance-Duca merger agreement hidden inside Raphael’s private safe.
Neither of them knew that Clara Whitfield was currently walking toward St. Leonard’s Church with a dying heart and a battered flip phone containing the absolute truth.
