Chapter 8 - The Queen of Sands Point
Six months later.
The Sands Point estate was bathed in bright, glorious June sunshine. The bare winter trees had bloomed into lush green canopy, and the gardens surrounding the stone mansion were filled with blooming white roses and blue hydrangeas.
The heavy iron gates opened to welcome dozens of glossy black sedans.
The grand ballroom of the estate, once a cold hall reserved for dark syndicate business, had been transformed into an breathtaking wedding venue. Crystal chandeliers reflected light over tables covered in white silk, silver dinner plates, and massive floral arrangements.
In the private bridal suite of the West Wing, Beatrice stood before a full-length gilded mirror.
She was breathtaking.
She wore a custom ivory satin gown designed by an elite atelier in Milan, cut to accentuate her gorgeous curves, with an intricate lace train that flowed five feet behind her. Her dark hair was styled in soft, elegant waves, crowned by a delicate diamond tiara.
Beside her stood Isabella, looking radiant and healthy, wearing a deep navy silk dress. The toxic damage had been completely reversed; her eyes were sharp, her posture noble and proud.
"You look like an empress, Bea," Isabella smiled, placing a gentle hand on Beatrice’s cheek. "My son is a very lucky man."
"I’m the lucky one, Isabella," Beatrice smiled, her heart swelling with gratitude.
The grand doors opened, and Marcus stepped in, wearing a tailored tuxedo. "It’s time, ma'am."
Downstairs, three hundred guests—the most powerful syndicate bosses, politicians, and business moguls on the East Coast—stood in quiet reverence as the wedding march began to play.
At the end of the long aisle, standing before the altar near the ocean-view glass windows, stood Graham Russo.
He looked imposing, wildly handsome in a black velvet tuxedo. But as the double doors opened and Beatrice appeared, the dark, lethal mafia king completely unraveled.
His eyes filled with raw, unadulterated awe. A tear slipped down his cheek, unbidden, as he watched his bride walk toward him.
Beside her, holding her arm, walked her younger sister, Marisol, who was crying tears of pure joy.
When Beatrice reached the altar, Graham stepped forward, taking both of her hands in his. His hands were warm, trembling slightly with emotion.
"You are my miracle, Beatrice," Graham whispered so only she could hear.
"And you are my home, Graham," she replied.
The priest spoke the ancient words of marriage, binding their lives, their souls, and their empires together forever.
"I now pronounce you husband and wife," the priest declared. "You may kiss the bride."
Graham didn't hesitate. He pulled Beatrice into his arms, dipping her slightly as he kissed her deeply, passionately, in front of the entire underworld.
The ballroom erupted into thunderous applause. Syndicate bosses who had once ruled New York with fear now stood and bowed their heads to the new Queen of Sands Point.
Later that night, as the music played and guests danced under the stars on the oceanfront terrace, Graham and Beatrice stood together near the balustrade overlooking the dark sea.
Graham held her tight against his chest, his chin resting on her head, watching the moonlight dance on the water.
"Are you happy, my Queen?" Graham whispered into her hair.
Beatrice looked up at her husband, at the dark, fierce, loving eyes that had seen through her doubts and given her a fortress of love.
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"I used to want to be invisible, Graham," Beatrice said softly, resting her hand over his heart. "Now, I finally feel seen."
Graham smiled, leaning down to kiss her once more under the starlight—a promise of protection, devotion, and a love that would rule for a lifetime.
