Chapter 7 - The Ghost of the Altar
The bridal suite at the Grand Meridian Hotel had been completely restored, stripped of every trace of blood, shattered crystal, and splintered wood. The walls had been repainted in pristine cream, the carpet replaced with plush charcoal wool, and a brand-new set of white roses arranged on the mahogany vanity. To anyone else, it was a luxury hotel room waiting for its next wealthy guest.
For Giulietta, walking back into the suite alone late that night felt like stepping through a ghost story.
She wore a simple black cashmere sweater and tailored trousers, her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. The heavy silk wedding gown was gone, locked away in an industrial incinerator hours after the aborted ceremony. Yet, as she stood before the gilded full-length mirror, she could still see the faint, ghostly reflection of a girl in white holding a metal golf club, waiting to see if she would break.
The door behind her clicked open.
Don Salvatore Marconi stepped into the room, moving with the quiet, measured tread of an aging lion. He looked around the immaculate space, a heavy sigh escaping his lips.
"You didn't have to come back here tonight, Giulietta," Salvatore said gently, walking up behind her and looking at her reflection in the glass. "The past is buried. The Hale syndicate is history, and the Council is eating out of the palm of your hand."
"I wanted to see if there was anything left of her," Giulietta replied quietly, her gaze fixed on her own reflection.
"Of who? The bride?" Salvatore asked.
"No," Giulietta turned slowly to face her father. "The person who thought she had to negotiate for a seat at the table she built. I spent three months preparing for a marriage designed to steal my life. Walking back into this room reminds me of how close I came to playing by their rules instead of my own."
Salvatore walked over to the small marble wet bar, pouring two glasses of aged scotch. He handed one to his daughter, his eyes softening with a rare, deep paternal pride. "You never played by their rules, Giulietta. That was your mother’s greatest gift to you—she taught you that a crown isn't something you inherit because of who you marry. It's something you take when everyone else is too blind to see the knife coming."
Giulietta took a slow sip of the amber liquid, letting the warmth burn pleasantly down her throat. "The Zurich Council meets tomorrow to ratify the new shipping distribution. Once those signatures are dry, the Marconi family won't just control the domestic ports; we will dictate terms across three continents."
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"And after that?" Salvatore asked, a knowing twinkle in his eye.
"After that," Giulietta smiled, her eyes flashing with absolute, unyielding resolve, "we expand."
