Chapter 188

Chapter 188

A crimson bullet hole bloomed between Lydia's eyes. Her pupils dilated in shock as her body stiffened, then collapsed to the cold stone floor like a broken marionette.

Silence.

Then Mario and Sophia erupted into hysterical screams, thrashing violently against their chains. The metallic rattling echoed through the basement chamber.

I didn't even glance their way. I tossed the gun to a nearby guard with clinical indifference.

My mother stepped forward, producing a pristine white handkerchief. With infinite tenderness, she wiped the gunpowder residue from my fingertips.

There was no horror in her eyes at the bloodshed—only deep, maternal concern.

"Leave the rest of the dirty work to us," my father said, moving to my side. His gaze swept over the two figures crucified before us, his tone carrying the cold authority of old money aristocracy. "I'll have our people follow your mother's instructions. They'll flay these two alive—one strip of skin per day. They'll live a very long time. And suffer every moment of it."

I nodded silently as Vincent's arm circled my waist, guiding me toward the exit.

The elevator doors slid shut, severing the anguished screams below.

When we reached the second-floor sitting room and the heavy oak doors closed behind us, the rigid tension holding my spine straight finally gave way.

The crushing weight I'd carried for two lifetimes—the humiliation of my past life's brutal death, the burning need to avenge my foster father—shattered in that instant. The shadows of scrabbling for survival in the slums' garbage heaps finally dissipated like smoke.

I turned and threw my arms around Vincent's waist, burying my face against his broad, solid chest.

Tears fell without permission, soaking through his shirt.

I made no sound. I simply trembled violently, releasing two lifetimes of grief and pain I'd never allowed myself to feel.

Vincent's body went rigid for a heartbeat. Then his arms locked around me like steel bands.

"It's over, Elena. It's all over," he murmured, his large hand stroking down my spine in soothing repetition. He pressed kiss after kiss to the crown of my head, his voice rough with emotion yet infinitely gentle.

He held me patiently, letting me cry until his shirtfront was drenched.

Only when my breathing finally evened out did he cup my face, using his calloused thumbs to wipe away the tear tracks with excruciating tenderness.

I looked up at him through reddened eyes, my heart swelling with warmth.

"Vincent." I sniffled, meeting his dark gaze directly. "Let's get married."

Not just engaged. I wanted to marry him. Now.

Vincent froze mid-motion.

Wild joy flashed through his eyes—then, surprisingly, he suppressed it. His brow furrowed. He actually hesitated.

My expression darkened. I pushed his hands away with feigned anger. "What? Having second thoughts?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Vincent immediately pulled me back into his arms, sighing with helpless indulgence. "I'd drag you to a chapel this second if I could. But there's still unfinished business in New York."

A murderous gleam sharpened his gaze. "That depraved animal Michael is still raving on the dark web. I need to go back personally and cut him into pieces. I won't allow any potential threat near our wedding."

So that was it.

I laced my fingers through his, my tone brooking no argument. "Then I'm coming with you. New York is where we met. That's where I want our wedding."

Vincent opened his mouth to protest—

The sitting room door swung open.

My parents entered. Clearly, they'd overheard.

"Selena's right," my father declared, his voice resonating with absolute confidence and authority. "The heir to the Colonna family doesn't hide from anyone. You'll have your New York wedding. I'll mobilize every resource in Europe to lock down the city's security. Anyone who dares show their face at that ceremony will leave in a body bag."

My mother crossed to me, her smile warm as she stroked my cheek. "Wherever you want to get married, darling, that's where we'll go. Your father and I will handle everything."

Looking at my parents and Vincent, I felt a smile of complete peace curve my lips.

Two weeks later. New York City.

The wedding of the century stopped the world.

St. Patrick's Cathedral was surrounded by an impenetrable cordon of Corleone family soldiers and Colonna family security. The entire stretch of Fifth Avenue in Manhattan was shut down.

Among the invited guests: Europe's oldest noble houses, Wall Street's financial titans, and underworld kingpins whose names alone inspired terror.

As for Michael—three days before the wedding, Vincent's men dragged him from a basement, dismembered him, and fed the pieces to sharks in the Hudson River.

Inside the cathedral, the pipe organ swelled with the wedding march's majestic strains.

I wore a haute couture gown that Paris's finest atelier had spent a thousand hours hand-sewing. The Colonna family's antique crown rested on my head.

My father, eyes glistening with unshed tears, walked me down the white rose-strewn aisle and placed my hand in Vincent's.

Vincent looked devastating in his impeccably tailored black tuxedo. His obsidian eyes reflected only me.

We exchanged vows before the priest. Exchanged rings.

When the priest pronounced us married, Vincent lifted my veil. His hand cradled the back of my head as he lowered his mouth to mine in a deep, claiming kiss—witnessed by thunderous applause and cheers from every corner of the cathedral.

Married life was peaceful. Sweet.

Ten months later, I gave birth to twins.

Our son, Lyon. Our daughter, Aurora.

The heirs to both the Colonna and Corleone empires were born at the pinnacle of global power.

Several years later. Late night.

I was sleeping soundly when the man beside me suddenly bolted upright.

Vincent's breathing came harsh and labored. Cold sweat drenched his body.

He gasped in the darkness, hands trembling as they groped toward me. The moment his fingers found my shoulder, he seized me like a drowning man clutching a lifeline, crushing me against his chest.

He held me so tightly my bones ached.

"Elena..." He buried his face in the curve of my neck, his voice shaking with raw panic.

I woke fully, settling into his embrace and running my hand soothingly down his sweat-slicked back. "What's wrong? Bad dream?"

"I dreamed you were dead." Vincent's throat worked convulsively, residual terror threading through his words. "I dreamed Mario used you as a bargaining chip. You died in some freezing basement. When I got there, all I found was your body..."

My heart lurched.

That "dream" wasn't a dream at all. It was my previous life—my actual death.

But I didn't tell him that.

Those shadows and sufferings belonged to another lifetime.

I cupped his face, finding his lips unerringly in the darkness.

I kissed him deeply, pouring reassurance into every stroke of my mouth against his, until the rigid tension in his muscles gradually unwound.

"It was just a dream, Vincent," I whispered against his lips. "I'm right here. Alive and well. I'm your wife. Lyon and Aurora's mother."

Vincent drew a shuddering breath and tightened his arms around me.

Outside the window, New York's night glittered, serene and brilliant.

I rested against his warm chest, listening to the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat, and slowly closed my eyes.

This time, I had truly seized the light that belonged to me.

—THE END—