The next chapter reveals what happens next—keep reading.

The grand chapel of the Long Island estate was breathtakingly decorated for the wedding of the century. Thousands of white orchids cascaded down the marble pillars, the organ played a soft, classical melody, and the high-society elite of the East Coast underworld sat in hushed, reverent silence along the velvet-cushioned pews.

At the altar stood Camille Ashwood, looking radiant in a custom-designed French lace wedding gown that cost more than most houses. Her blonde hair was styled in an intricate crown, and a diamond necklace sparkled brilliantly against her collarbone. Beside her stood Dean Foster, impeccably dressed in a custom tuxedo, wearing an expression of calm, triumphant satisfaction.

Everything was in place. The legal transfer documents of the Rinaldi empire had been signed and notarized that very morning. Carla Bennett was securely locked in the basement holding cell, guarded by two loyal hitmen, serving as insurance to ensure absolute silence. And Massimo Rinaldi was scheduled to be wheeled down the central aisle by Dean himself, a pathetic, broken figure about to witness his own corporate execution.

The heavy oak doors at the back of the chapel swung open with a resounding boom.

A hush fell instantly over the entire congregation.

Dean Foster stepped forward to push Massimo’s wheelchair down the aisle, a smug, untouchable grin playing across his lips. Massimo sat upright in his custom black wheelchair, his head bowed slightly, his hands resting motionless on the velvet lap blanket, perfectly projecting the image of a defeated, broken king walking toward his own execution.

Flashbulbs popped from the press gallery in the back. Whispers rippled through the pews.

Camille watched them approach, her eyes gleaming with absolute triumph. It’s finally over, she thought to herself. The Rinaldi empire is ours.

Dean brought the wheelchair to a smooth halt at the base of the altar, right beside the minister. He leaned down, whispering softly into Massimo’s ear with a dark, mocking chuckle.

"A magnificent ceremony, boss," Dean whispered. "You look wonderful. Too bad you won't live to see the honeymoon."

Massimo didn't answer immediately. He raised his head slowly, his cold gray eyes locking onto Dean with an intensity that made the younger man's smile falter for a fraction of a second.

"You always were ambitious, Dean," Massimo’s deep baritone voice echoed clearly through the vaulted chapel ceiling, amplified slightly by the hidden lapel microphone he wore. "Twelve years I pulled you out of the dirt. And how do you repay me? A bullet in the spine, a poisoned cup of water, and a stolen empire."

The congregation erupted into instant, chaotic uproar. Shouts of shock and confusion bounced off the stone walls.

Dean’s face drained of color. He stepped back, his hand instinctively dropping toward his shoulder holster. "The man is delusional," Dean shouted over the noise, trying to regain control. "The trauma from the ambush fried his brain! Dr. Hale, sedate him immediately!"

Dr. Julian Hale stepped out from the sacristy with a syringe in his hand, his face pale with panic. "Mr. Rinaldi is suffering a severe psychotic episode—"

"Quiet, Julian," a voice echoed through the chapel speakers—a voice so cold and absolute that every single person froze in terror.