The St. Patrick's Cathedral was a masterpiece of organized lies.
Thousands of white Sterling roses—each one costing more than a year of my rent in Astoria—clung to the gothic pillars. The air was heavy with the scent of expensive incense and the whispered scandals of New York's elite. Every seat was filled with CEOs, politicians, and the kind of people who bought and sold countries over appetizers.
At the altar stood Julianne Vane.
She was a vision of predatory perfection. Her dress was a cloud of white silk and Vane family diamonds, her veil trailing behind her like the shroud of a dead empire. She held a bouquet of lilies, her eyes fixed on the grand oak doors at the back of the cathedral.
She was waiting for her groom. She was waiting for the victory she had stolen from the ashes of a diner in Queens.
